Let It All Go
by Me Or The Wallpaper
Summary: Despite being lightyears away from home, he is attempting to follow Vulcan doctorine. To remain objective in every situation. To treat his own life at school and the world around him as a scientific study. A captivating homeless boy complicates this. AU
1. Prologue

**Title:** Let It All Go

**Author: **anonpersona

**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU

**Rating:** PG13

**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash

**Word Count:** 650

**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship

**Tropes:** academy, au counterparts, character study, teen, troubled_past

**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP

**Additional Pairings:** none

**Summary:** Prompted on kink meme ( l**ivejournal****.com/st_xi_kink_** ) _I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. _Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.

**AN:** I saw the prompt and couldn't resist its awesomeness. This is also on livejournal, but I figured I should expand my horizons. Or, um, also include this other horizon I used to have in my new horizons. o_o I basically noticed that people still favorited my stuff on this website from time to time, and got the warm fuzzies and decided to start updating.

* * *

Amanda Greyson had often proudly attributed her son's more illogical escapades to herself.

Spock could still vividly remember standing rather sheepishly in his family's kitchen, clutching a clean plate to his chest, and being informed very logically and with vast amounts of highly evident disaporval that what he had been doing made no sense.

"If you continue to bring food to the wild sehlats, not only will they begin to associate Vulcans with sustenance, they are also more likely to fail at providing for themselves. Unless you intend to personally train these sehlats to be domestic animals – a highly illogical goal, considering they were born outside of Vulcan society and you yourself are not a professional trainer – assisting them will only disrupt the natural order of their lives."

"It is the dry season, and food is scarce." Spock had said, still not meeting his father's eyes. He was 11, and just beginning to get that niggling urge to not ever be his parents. Or, at the very least, to never have a single cell of himself resemble his father more than absolutely necessary. He didn't yet have the rash bravery he would inherit at age 13, though, and did not speak too loudly. "Considering my ongoing study of this particular sehlat pack, it was imperative that I provide them with nourishment so that I may continue my study."

He heard his mother laugh fondly, and had a twisting pang of indignant affection shoot straight through him. He shoved it down quickly, careful to keep his face neutral.

"A true scientist does not interfere with the culture of the life forms under observation." His father's reply was sharp. "You are lying. You are merely 'playing' with these sehlats. Both of these – as well as your urge to provide them with food - are considered _human_ characteristics, Spock."

It was his mother's turn to sound cool and logical, though the anger in her voice was more apparent. "Yes." She'd said, "I believe they are."

The next day she had sent him off with both a lunch and a sack of leftovers from dinner. The look on her face could be described as nothing other than 'proud,' and he had felt both guilty and pleased with himself. He had not yet understood that what he was doing was wrong. Vulcans do not interfere with the lives of others. Vulcans are scientists. They merely watch.

It had taken Spock years to understand that. Even at age 17, away at school on Earth, he still had to suppress the manic urge to pick up birds with crooked wings or to give everything he owned to the broken, skinny bags of wrinkled flesh he caught sight of in the streets of San Francisco – the homeless. He had to shake off the feeling that he needed to adopt the older cats he saw in the windows of local shelters. The ones with grey fur and trembling limbs, squinted eyes, maybe blind. Three legs or a stub were a tail should be.

What benefit would the possession of a feline bring to him? Nothing. There was no reason. It was not his job to interfere with the lives of others. A true Vulcan remained distant and allowed the world around him to go on untouched. A true Vulcan studied and watched, and allowed things to grow and die on their own, suffer and succeed under nothing more than observation.

It was his mother's fault. The one time he voiced this predicament of warped morality to her (when he was 14, and the rash, stupid bravery had indeed overtaken his personality, and he never wanted to be either of his parents, ever) she had laughed and caught him up in her arms, smooching her mouth against the side of his face even while crying delightedly "I'm so glad! You've been such a little terror lately, there's hope for you yet if you've inherited those kinds of sensibilities!" He remembered it every time this urge to interfere and try to 'save' or 'help' something hit him. It helped make him stable.

It helped him remember that he didn't want to be a human, he wanted to be a Vulcan. So he must live by Vulcan codes of morality and ethics.

This all changed when he met Jim.

* * *

Review, please! I'd love to know what you think. :-)


	2. Blue

**Title:** Let It All Go

**Author:** anonpersona

**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash**  
****Accumulated Word Count:** 3,590  
**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship  
**Tropes:** academy, au counterparts, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past  
**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP  
**Additional Pairings:** none  
**Summary: **Prompted on kink meme (.com/st_xi_kink_) I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats. 

* * *

Spock kept his life at school on Earth extremely neat and orderly.

He had routines. He had a single dorm in order to avoid altercations and messes. There were no decorations beyond a picture of his father and him appearing solemn, his mother grinning jovially at their side, thoroughly amused. Despite the fact that they agreed it was quite an unflattering picture of all of them, his mother had hung it on his wall during her last visit, chuckling at the image and saying "It'll give you something to laugh about, at least." He had stared at her in a way that would have been incredulous had he been an emotional creature. Since he was not, the glance was neutral and considering in a way that suggested she was a highly illogical creature, and her antics were curious and mildly bizarre.

But his room was still perfect. His classes were the most suitable for his academic and professional goals within the confines of the requirements. He had two nutritionally balanced meals per day, and meditated for two hours (at least) each morning.

He arranged his outfits for the next seven days on Saturday night each week. Each of his pairs of pants were black and of the same material and company, though he had a new sweater for each day of the week since he was aware that variety in clothing was considered aesthetically praiseworthy on Earth.

His morning classes were held in a building three blocks away from his dormitory, which was less than ideal, yet he had designed a routine which fit even this into orderly convenience. There was a take-out restaurant called 'Melting Pot' between the two places, so Spock used his meal card to purchase lunch (hummas and pita on Tuesday and Thursday, vegetarian stir-fry on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) on his way back from classes every day, to add a sense of purpose to the walk itself.

He would eat his food while sitting at a small public chess table in a local park. Then he would do his homework.

After he had nourished himself, completed his work, and meditated enough that he deemed his own state 'tranquil,' Spock would occasionally conn home. He would then spend no less (though occasionally more) than a half hour discussing things with his mother, and sometimes his father. When he was finished with this, he would sometimes study topics which would most likely turn out to be useful, but were not technically required at the School of the Confederation of Planets on Earth. When he got into Starfleet, Spock trusted that he would be thankful that he had learned these things now, and could then be top of his class with even less effort than being top of the class took here.

Sometimes he also just sat and stared at the various groups and families joking and laughing together.

There was a reason for this, however. He was in a required sociology class this semester, and Spock was not adept at sociology. He currently possessed only an A- in the class. It was logical to hone his social skills by watching others interact.

Occasionally, he would play chess with himself.

He thought he had life quite down. He had routines, which were good. He was getting nothing but excellent grades, except in Sociology, though he planned to improve that by the end of the semester. He had not become involved in partying and drinking, as his mother had initially feared he would. She now seemed to encourage the behavior, which was odd. Though Spock had long since matured enough to understand that, while his mother was a very respectable woman, she was merely human. Her opinions were apt to change, and her choices would not always be the most logical.

It was his belief that he was handling independent adult life exceptionally well. 

* * *

He smelled the boy before anything else. Something registered in his mind as he walked along his ordinary route back to his dorm after stopping for lunch, his thoughts previously preoccupied by explanations and theories involving cats in historical quantum physics.

The smell was salty sweat and the ancient, ruminating scent of every part of the male body sat still for too long in the sun. Dirt and grime, the faintest earthy sting of waste paired with an equally faint acidic burn of urine. A bitter taste flaring over his tongue as his nose became overwhelmed with under-arm and the dusty mildew of unwashed hair.

He glanced up, startled. Around him, the crowd had parted, weaving off the sidewalk as if they were all nothing more than a river, and a rock jutted into their path. On the sidewalk, on an island of bare pavement, a boy sat.

A boy. Probably a man, though he seemed small. It was difficult to tell which features came from age and which came from malnourishment. His elbows jutted on either side of him, and marking up his face was the scattered, grimy stubble that marked those who couldn't grow a real beard but had part of one, regardless. His threadbare clothes fell against his bony limbs as if the fibers of cotton were breaking down and dissolving onto him, all the sweat and dirt of his body digesting the cloth like a plant eating sunlight through its pores.

His eyes were closed.

For a long, silent moment, Spock stood just outside the island where no one walked. A trashcan sat in the middle like a palm tree, as if this was some sick remake of an idealic scene.

The eyes were closed. His head lulled forwards onto his chest. There was a glittering drip of saliva hanging from a dry, raw bottom lip.

Spock breathed in deeply, ignoring the sting it brought to his eyes. He could smell decay. He could smell… flesh. Though in this sweltering heat, it was difficult to tell where the scent was coming from. It could very easily be an old sandwich breaking down in the trash can, or some long-dead squished piece of road-kill on the side of the road. It didn't have to be this boy.

And it wasn't his job to take care of this stranger anyway.

Surely someone else – someone whose job it was, perhaps, to keep the sidewalks clean and clear – they would find him, and take him to the proper authorities.

This wasn't Spock's place.

Spock couldn't tell if the boy was breathing. It seemed impossible that he could be, with the stench of himself all around him, inescapable. That his lungs could function with this long of an exposure to himself.

Without thinking further about it, Spock stepped forwards, into the space where no one went, where no one got too close. He clutched his lunch bag in one hand. "Greetings." He said. His voice sounded vaguely hoarse.

The human didn't move. Dreading this, Spock stretched forwards and poked lightly at the boy's arm.

He'd meant it only to get a vague impression off of him. To insure that, at the very base, things were all working. That breathing and heart-beats and brain activity were all present, and he didn't plan on delving even slightly deeper. Just a small precautionary touch, and then he was going to pull away and do… whatever it was that one should do after obtaining such information.

As soon as his finger brushed the boy's arm, however, the head jerked back, immediately smacking against the brick wall behind him with a painful crack. In the same moment, a hand reached up, grabbing Spock's own hand with lightning speed, the dry pads of someone else's fingers suddenly invading the private space of his palms, a nail digging gently into the intimate crook of his finger, thumb up against his own, the boy's head tilted towards him, glaring, and

_Exhaustion shock hunger terror anger indigence pathetic weakness hunger hunger exhaustion hunger anger…_

Blue.

Perfect, metallic blue from two piercing points, a clear sky pieced together in this boy's eyes above the stained yellow glimmer of his teeth, bared like a threatened dog.

Spock pulled his hand away, stumbling backwards, ignoring the automatic sensations that flared up along his fingers from the touch and the heavy weight of the stranger's mind resting like a smooth and perfect stone in his head, pressing his own thoughts against the base of his skull and making his eyes ache with the pressure.

The boy glared. Spock muttered a stammering "I apologize for the intrusion." Even as his own head throbbed with pure _thought, _pure monstorous _feeling_ eating up all that he was.

When the gaze refused to drop in the ordinary expression of social decency, Spock looked away, some odd form of second-hand embarrassment running rampant through his still reeling system. He stumbled away from the boy, disoriented, shaking. He felt sick.

He stared down at his lunch in its bag for a moment, reaching into the paper and pulling out hummus and pita. The hummus was brown, with bloody flecks of pepper in it; the pita the color of tanned Caucasian human skin.

After a moment's consideration, he dropped the meal back into the bag, dropping all of it into the trash can. He could feel the man's gaze – vivid and wild – pinning his back as if he were a specimen. An insect pinned down to a board for examination and study.

Spock didn't realize what he had done until he was back off the island, back into the flowing throng of ordinary society. Ordinary people with jobs and lives, passing back and forth between the two in the city like blood cells through veins. He didn't realize until he heard a stumble and a rustle, the sound of bottles clinking and paper being torn apart.

He turned back to see the boy digging into his abandoned lunch, shoveling it into his face as if it was the first thing to pass his lips in decades. Spock could only stare at the creature, all of the painful pride, anger and strength gone as a pathetic animal overtook the limbs. The boy scarcely seemed to chew before swallowing, ignoring table manners all together, using his own grimy fingers to dig through the hummus and shovel it past his chapped lips.

-~-~-~-

Spock sent a conn to his mother later that evening. It was two hours past when he ordinarily sent her a conn, due to an examination that had warranted a little more studying than normally required. It was in sociology. The class was highly illogical, and Spock was beginning to suspect that the way to an A+ lay more in a combination of simple guesswork and his ability to win the affections of his professor and peers. They did not seem fond of him. Professor Pike in particular seemed to be in the practice of viewing him more in amused contempt than anything else.

Spock informed his mother of his suspicions. His mother was suitably discouraged, and suggested he inform his father of this development.

Spock blinked, considering. "I do not believe he would wish to be bothered with such things."

Amanda shrugged. "Well, I suppose it _is_ really just a small thing. I mean, you'll have to deal with unpleasant people for your entire life, Spock. I think school is something of a training ground, in that way – teaching everyone to deal with those really annoying people."

Spock felt his own eyebrows come together worriedly, and he quickly neutralized his face. His mother smiled affectionately up at him out of his PADD. "I do not believe Professor Pike could be described as… unpleasant, per say." Spock said. It was true. Pike wasn't rude. The only thing really wrong with him was that he acted more like a student and less like how Spock's teachers normally acted. Spock's teachers normally fell all over themselves, thrilled to have a pupil who was so incredibly devoted to classwork. Spock found he much preferred this attitude than this odd 'you are not yet worthy' mentality Pike seemed to hold.

"There, you see! That's the attitude to have. Everyone has good in them. You just have to stop and look for it. Now, Sweety, how are you doing otherwise? Are you sleeping enough? Have you eaten?"

Amanda always asked these questions. Spock was used to responding with a curt "I possess the maturity and resources necessary to keep myself functioning, Mother." Today, though, the question gave him pause.

_Hungry hungry…_

"Spock? Sweety? Please don't pause like that when I ask you if you're doing the things necessary to keep yourself healthy. Are you all right? Are you sick? Do you need to come home for a while? It's ok if you do, I mean, you've been away for two months now, I used to cry and visit home every month _at least _when I went away to school at your age, it's ok, it's natural, I won't be any less proud of you at all, and your father will understand! I'll -"

"Mother. _Mother._ I was merely… distracted. Of course I am obtaining sufficient sustenance and giving myself ample time for sleep. Do not concern yourself with it."

Amanda laughed a bit, the strain in her face showing. A wrinkle between her brows – exactly like the one Spock occasionally developed, but much deeper – was a soft, thread-like split in her face. Spock had a horrible moment of realization that she was older than she had been a few years ago, when he was attending school on Vulcan. It was a rather silly realization, but the thought put down roots into his head regardless, sinking between the calmer, more organized thoughts. Of course she was older. It was only logical.

"Oh Spock. You know, sometimes you just have to put up with me overreacting… it's one of the downsides to having a human mother, eh?"

"Mother," Spock said, weakly. "There exist no 'downsides' visible to me."

She smiled at him, though the line remained between her eyebrows, interrupting her face. "Spock," she said quietly, after an instant, "You know you can tell me anything, right?"

"You have stressed as much over the course of my life."

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Yes, I did that because it's true. Anything. You can tell me _anything_. So… if there's something worrying you, I'm here to talk about it. Big worries or small ones. Anything."

For a moment, Spock hesitated. He had the urge, somehow, to explain the ragged form on the sidewalk to his mother. The Boy seemed inappropriate for this conversation, though – this small chat he was having with his mother across light-years, with the help of his expensive electronic PADD, to speak about his progress with his extremely expensive high school education. And he couldn't figure out how to form the experience into words, anyway. Not that it mattered. What had really happened? What would his mother say if he were to simply tell her "I threw out my lunch and a homeless person ate it." What relevance or importance did this have?

"There is nothing of any size 'worrying' me, mother."

She considered him for a moment. He was concerned for a second that she would pursue it, but he should have known better. It had never been Amanda's style to question something after her son had requested it be left alone. "Alright, then." She said. Then her tone and face brightened, and she said "Well, I have to go, but promise me you'll attend a relatively wild party, and maybe get a little tipsy, alright, dear?"

"We have already discussed this matter in length, Mother."

"Darling. Trust me. You will regret it if you go your entire high school career without doing something absolutely stupid. Not partially stupid. Everyone manages to do that by accident - yes, even you. I mean _very_ stupid, Dear. When I got pregnant, one of the things I looked forward to was having to think up creative punishments for a rowdy teenager. Are you going to deprive me of that opportunity?"

"You mentioned your need to leave a moment ago. I also have matters which I must attend to."

"It better be a random, unplanned road trip with friends you met just last week. While high."

"I can assure you, it is not. Live long, and prosper."

"Goodbye, love."

-~-~-~-

The next day, he didn't stop. He didn't even look at the boy. He bought his usual vegetable stir-fry.

Spock dropped his uneaten lunch in the trash-can with more gusto than necessary, the box crashing against the bag and hopefully not opening and spilling out into the garbage.

His only assurance that the boy was even present was the stench of him and the flash of bony limbs out of the corner of his eye.

That was what had bothered him. Guilt. Strange that a culture that claimed to avoid all emotion seemed to make guiltwell up like blood from a wound that opened again and again, never entirely closing. Guilt, for interfering. For failing spectacularly to be the scientist, even if it was by accident. For failing to be distant and removed. For being sewn into this life and the world around him like a thread into fabric, and for being utterly unable to truly cut himself free.

Guilt because, in a way, he was so very pleased that the boy had eaten his food.


	3. Deviance

**Title:** Let It All Go

**Author: **anonpersona

**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU

**Rating:** PG13

**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash

**Accumulated Word Count:** 7,844

**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship

**Tropes:** academy, au counterparts, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess

**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP

**Additional Pairings:** none

**Summary:** Prompted on kink meme (**.com/st_xi_kink_**) I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.

* * *

Sociology was not held in a lecture hall like Spock's other classes, and this was one of (the many) problems he had with it.

It was not held in a lab, either, which would have been acceptable had it been a _real_ science. No. it was held in what appeared to be a converted staff dining area.

The room was relatively long and narrow, just large enough to hold what was, admittedly, a very fine old oak table. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned two sides of the room, one long side and one short side, the view overlooking a brick wall on the end and a busy San Francisco street on the broad side.

The room was distracting. It was far too easy for one's attention to stray to the goings on out in the street or the traffic in the sky. It was a hindrance. A classroom should be windowless and larger, and the chairs should all face in the direction of the teacher and the smartboard-wall.

This classroom had no smartboard-wall. The only computerized board was a small one on stilts that Professor Pike wheeled into class each morning, attaching it to the back of his own chair with a small hook. It was a rather odd sight.

By the time Spock arrived in class, Pike was already set at the end of the table, and four of his classmates were already at their usual seats. Spock was late. Only fifteen minutes early, as apposed to his usual 20 minutes. Nyota Uhura, a fellow student, was already passing out the day's assignment. She smiled at him, and he nodded briefly, glancing down at the paper.

As expected, it was completely nonsensical. It read:

1) Sit at a stranger's table when there are open tables available

2) Face the back of the elevator

3) Ask a woman to vacate her seat on a bus

4) Have a pizza delivered to MacDonalds

5) Shake someone's hand with your left hand

6) Stand up and help a waiter serve dishes at your table

7) When someone throws something in the trash, remove it while they are still watching.

Spock stopped reading.

More classmates had filed in when he was preoccupied, and Pike, who'd been sitting at the head of the table chatting with Uhura after she'd sat down, glanced quickly at his watch (which must have been fast, since class did not technically begin for another two point four minutes) and smiled good naturedly at them, saying "Well, lets start. The others are violating social norms by being late. They don't deserve to hear my beautiful voice."

There were collective titters. Spock wanted to point out that, based on what Pike had told him last class, acting superior to one's fellows violated one of the biggest societal norms. He expected this would not go over well, however.

"So. Someone tell me what you have in front of you. Spock, lets hear it."

"A list of seemingly random suggestions."

"True. True. _Seemingly_ random. Now tell me how they would seem not to be random?"

More giggles. Nyota Uhura covered her mouth with one slender dark hand, her eyes filled with mirth. Spock stiffened. "They are all violations of unstated rules of human culture."

"Aaaaand how do _you_ know that?"

Another laugh, and Spock felt a swell of indignation, which was quickly suppressed and vanished easily when he willed it to, because he was a very good Vulcan, and definitely did not allow this class or the people in it to affect him. "Am I incorrect?" he questioned.

"'Course not. Not in the mood for jokes, I see. Ok. So, Spock's right – these are all things you just don't do. I'm sure we've all figured it out by now. You _don't _sit at a stranger's table when there are empty ones. You _don't_ steal people's trash. And, gender-equality be damned, if you're a man, you don't dare _ever_ ask a woman to give up _anything_ for you."

"Sir! Sir!" a chipper voice called to the side of Spock. Gaila's green hand flapped above her head, and Pike rolled his eyes.

"Do you have something to add, Gaila?"

"Yeah, I just want to say – I think it's just as awkward for a woman to ask another woman or a man to give up their seat on the bus. I mean, unless you're doing some kind of weird domination-based flirting on public transport, it's kind of inappropriate for anyone to ask any stranger to give up anything for them."

"That's kind of what these things are all based off of." Uhura agreed, nodding. "You don't ask people you don't know for things. You don't take things from people. Even people's old trash and everything. Though, I mean, it's fine if you know the person."

"Yeah. I mean, I told Uhura to get the fuck out of the only open seat on the bus just this morning."

"And I _didn't_ because that _wasn't _appropriate."

"I was wearing heals!" Gaila screeched, and Spock breathed in through his nose and slowly out through his mouth. Gaila turned to him, glaring. "What?" she asked. "Have you ever worn heals?"

"Altering one's appearance for the sake of soliciting attention is highly illogical."

"Damn straight it is." Uhura said, laughing.

"God, why don't you just strip." Gaila muttered, and the class laughed, and Uhura chucked her crumpled-up assignment at Gaila, and then she smirked at Spock, obviously laughing at him, though he had no idea what he'd done to illicit any type of mirth.

He balled his hands onto fists beneath the table. He could still hear chuckles, and Pike, Pike was laughing _with_ them, and they were all looking at Spock, and he didn't know _why_.

"I believe this is considered a violation of social norms." He said darkly. The laughing died down. If they hadn't been looking at him accusingly before, they certainly were now. So he stared at the table, the light from the window splitting it in half, illuminating the small splinters of ancient wood smoothed over from polish and years of hands brushing over the surface. He thought of that instead, as Pike began speaking, his voice still jovial.

"That's true. Spock is actually right – no surprise there." More titters. Spock stared intently at the table, and his own pale, tinged-green hand against it, knuckles faintly white and nails clean and perfectly clipped. He relaxed the fist, slipping one hand over to the other so they rested in loose dignity.

"I always find it weird that my sociology class definitely violates the most social norms each year. I guess it does make sense, though. Someone tell me why – someone we haven't heard from. Somone who never actually raises their hand in this class. Scotty?"

"Ah, don't ask me about social norms, sir! Not that it isn't fun, but it's just a required course ta me. I did'n even know these things weren't appropriate 'till ya gave me this list."

Everyone laughed, including Scotty, and Pike said "Well, Sulu, then."

"I guess because we're devoting the class to learning about them. Maybe the real violation is the assumption that people don't know them. We all seem to know them, here. Or… um, most of us, anyway."

Sulu looked at Scotty, grinning. Gaila, however, turned to Spock and _smirked_. Spock had no idea who was being insulted here.

"So we all assume we know them. It's not an insult or a danger, because we expect our peers in this class to be knowledgeable and therefore safe."

"Very good. So – you'd say the real violation is being an idiot?"

"No! Being… inept, I guess. In this one particular category. The feeling that someone is purposefully wronging us by not putting the same effort into life that we do."

Chekov was sitting at Sulu's side staring adoringly up at him, and he let out a small sigh. They were holding hands under the table. It was practically pornographic. Pike, who must have known they were, was of course saying nothing. The one time Spock had commented, Pike had merely responded with 'being a tattle-tale is more offensive, son.'

Which had been a collection of utter nonsense, of course. Whatever a 'tattle' was, even if it did possess a tail, Spock was not - and did not even possess - a tail, and furthermore, he was not Pike's son. Spock had informed Pike of this, and his classmates had not really stopped laughing at him for the remainder of that particular class, despite the fact that what he'd said was all entirely valid.

Spock snapped back to attention as he heard, "Now, your homework assignment this time is relatively simple. It involves no essays or worksheets. You don't have to do anything for it except for, when you get back, tell us how it went."

Gaila had begun to giggle. This was never a good sign.

"I want you to take this list – ok, Miss Uhura, just saying, you don't get a new one, you have to use the one you crumpled up and threw at Gaila – and I want you to violate at least three of the societal norms. Do the big do-nots. Be deviant. Be deviant together in groups of two – Sulu and Chekov, Scotty and Giotto, Gaila and Rand, and Spock and Uhura. Be each other's witnesses – I've deliberately paired the good liars with the ones who can't or won't lie, so I'll know if one of you cheated."

"Sir," Uhura said, clearly miffed, and Spock felt his face burn at her unhappiness. At what was doubtlessly going to fall from her lips next – _Why do I have to be paired with him? _

Pike turned to them, glaring, and said "Go." They all scattered except for Uhura. Spock bolted in the most reserved way possible, reaching the door before all of them and _refusing_ to stand behind and hold it open, as he ordinarily ended up doing at the end of every class.

* * *

"Hey! Spock! Spock, wait up!" Spock halted, not bothering to turn around. Uhura had caught up with him coming out of Melting Pot, holding a vegetable stir-fry. She pushed her way past the people, dark hair flaring up behind her and boots clicking against the pavement. Her assignment was still wrinkled in her hand, the white paper flashing in the harsh sunlight.

"Geeze, I've been looking for you for forever!" she was breathless by the time she reached him, and the words fell from a perfect grin, teeth a pearly cage containing a darting pink tongue.

"That is unlikely." Spock said, and she laughed at him again.

He continued on in silence, and she walked beside him. After a moment she said, glancing up at him almost timidly, "So, are you excited about the project? It's great that we get to work together, huh?"

"Vulcans do not feel 'excitement.'" He said harshly. "And I have found that I work best independent of others."

The smile slid from her face like oil over water. The light slipped that way as well, and suddenly, her face was noticeably cold and neutral. It was almost Vulcan.

"Ah. I see, then."

They continued walking. Spock saw the usual trashcan, and approached it, the stir-fry ready in his hand, when he realized with a cold start that the boy wasn't there.

"Spock… um, what are you doing?"

His space of wall was empty. The tree he sometimes leant against was vacant. The place, while it did not smell clean, per-say, certainly lacked the usual odor of unwashed clothing and body.

"Are you going to do the trash-picking one? Because I was hoping to avoid that, but if it's that important to you, o-kaaay. Spock?"

Spock began to rush ahead, holding his lunch. He didn't know what to do. It was startling enough when his daily routine was interrupted, but to have a total absence of The Boy…

Spock tried to remember the last time he'd seen Him. It had been just yesterday, and he'd been sitting against the wall when Spock had placed his hummus delicately on top of the trash. Ordinarily, as of late, The Boy was standing when he reached him. Perhaps there was something wrong with his health. Perhaps there had been something wrong with his health for a while, and it had only just now seized him, and he was lying somewhere, in the gutter, his insides bleeding out or an infection ravaging his body and all that was happening was that those who passed by him were giving him a slightly wider birth, more space to die and decompose and sink into the pavement, forever forgotten and unnoticed.

Spock had reached the park when he saw Him.

Ignoring Uhura behind him, who was calling "Spock? Spock? Seriously? Are you _ok?_ What's up? What's going on?" and running after him, Spock approached his usual chess table, still breathing shallowly.

There, the boy sat. He seemed cleaner than normal, and his eyes were certainly more alert. They watched as Spock approached, and a slow smile started to curve onto his lips. "Hi." He said.

Spock didn't answer.

For a long while, they stared at each other. Spock found himself looking over the expanse of dry, tan-and-freckled skin, checking for marks of some kind. Checking for malnutrition. He found both, but none were particularly threatening, or at least they weren't more prominent than they had been before. The boy continued to smile at him, and Spock mentally chided himself. There was a trashcan directly next to the seat. Spock placed the lunch delicately on top of a box that had been thrown away, turning back and walking towards another chess table, somewhere else.

Uhura was gaping at him. Behind, Spock could hear The Boy rising, stretching, and taking the untouched, plastic-wrap-covered stir fry from the garbage. Spock hurried past her, sitting down at a chess table far away from both of them, and pointedly removing his PADD from his pack.

She ignored the clear signal of desired privacy and sat down across from him. "Spock, couldn't you have just handed it to him? Did you have to… I mean, why did you put it in the _trash_? That was what you were doing, right? You were giving the homeless guy a meal? That wasn't just a bizarre collection of events that happened to result in a homeless guy getting a meal, right?"

Spock said nothing. He could see, out of the corner of his eye, The Boy scarfing down the lunch with gusto. It was all more polite than that first time, however. He even used the fork, suggesting less starvation than had been initially present when this odd tradition had began a short while ago.

"Well… I mean, why didn't you just hand him the damn lunch? Why'd you have to put it in the trash? Could you have at least spared him some dignity or something? I mean, I knew you were a bit cold, but this-"

"There is more than one set of societal norms, Miss Uhura." He said through gritted teeth. The Boy was approaching. Uhura grew silent as well, turning towards him. Despite the fact that it seemed to be against her own will, he saw her nose wrinkle in disgust at the stench of him, interrupting the cool, leafy scent of life in the park.

"Hey," the boy said. "Do you mind if I take your seat?"

There was a dumbfounded silence, and then, surprisingly, Uhura scrambled up, backing slowly away and saying "Eh, yeah, sure, all yours."

Spock was beginning to suspect that the motives behind the average human's actions would always be a mystery to him.

The Boy sat down, and Uhura backed vaguely away, gaping at both of them as if this were the most bizarre thing she'd ever seen. The Boy smiled at him, and without asking, began to set up the chess pieces on the table.

"Hey stranger. Do you play? I used to. Haven't in years, but I figured, hell, might as well see if I still have the skills."

Spock didn't answer. He could feel his heart churning in his side, the blood flowing through him almost cold beneath the heat that seemed to rest over the top of his skin, as if the sun was suddenly closer and he was naked beneath it, soaking up every ounce of light. He watched the hands slowly place the pieces in their correct spaces. The knuckles were large, wrinkled and dry, and his fingernails were flat, wide, and oddly clean. Small pink disks in his hand, bitten down so only a hair's width of white enamel curved around the edge.

"White moves first. You ok if I'm white? It's just how I set the pieces up, I didn't mean to take the first turn away from you. We can switch seats if you want. Or I can set them all up again."

The Boy didn't wait for a response, though. He simply moved the king's pawn forward two squares.

Spock acted without thinking about it. He'd seen this scenario before in chess, and he knew what came next, so he simply did it without thinking – black king's pawn forward two squares.

White king's knight.

Black queen's knight.

White king's bishop.

Black king's knight.

The motions were fast and barely calculated, each acting on some raw instinct, on some flash of memory and buzz of future potential scenarios. Uhura gaped between them, and The Boy was smiling wide, his unclean teeth somehow more honest and real in the grin than Uhura's white pearl cage had been before, the smile seeping into blue eyes, which were alight, alive, and _there_, soaking up each picture and image received from life like a sponge.

The match lasted five minutes. Spock won. It was the longest lasting match he'd ever played with anyone.

The Boy whistled, and Uhura giggled a bit, still staring at them as if they were miraculous. The Boy grinned up at him, and said "Best two out of three?"

Spock was about to nod. He was about to agree without thinking, his mind still reeling, when his PADD chirped up at him.

The name 'Ambassador Sarek' flashed across the screen.

For a horrified moment, Spock felt certain that his father could see them, somehow. That his presence was in each cold piece of electronic equipment Spock had on him, mechanics whirring and preaching of his predicament to his father. That he could hear through Spock's own pointed ears, see through him from light-years away, and know what he had done.

What he'd been doing.

Spock rose. He walked slowly away from the two. He didn't turn around when The Boy called out "Hey!" Didn't turn to Uhura's questioning "Spock?" He simply kept walking.

The conversation was brief and to the point. It was 'I trust you are doing well.' It was 'affirmative.' There was a brief silence they both ordinarily saved for his mother's interjection, but she appeared not to be present.

There was 'I am arranging a visit to Earth soon, and your mother has insisted that we 'stop by.'"

Spock said "That would be acceptable."

Then there was "I have been notified of a scholarship competition taking place at your school. While we are not in need of credits, it would do much for your personal status for you to accept the award."

Spock said "Affirmative."

"The details are unknown to me. I trust you will look into them."

"Affirmative."

"I trust your grade in sociology will improve."

"Affirmative."

"I have matters I must now attend to."

"Live Long and Prosper."

"Peace and a Long Life."

Silence.

* * *

On Friday, Spock bought a tuna salad sandwich from Melting Pot.

The man behind the counter had smiled at him and said conversationally "Mixing it up a bit, eh?"

Spock had blinked up at him. He had pulled his meal card back to his chest in surprise. He was unused to having the workers at Melting Pot question him. "Pardon me," he said, "I fail to understand what 'mixing it up' refers to or means."

The man laughed, nodding towards the sandwich he was currently wrapping up in plastic. Spock had asked him to include two layers, for maximum freshness. One could never be too safe while dumping ones lunch in the trash.

"You know, you normally get either that disgusting bean dip thing or stir-fried rice. This is new. You going a bit wild?" he smiled.

Spock responded, "I did not believe it was your job to engage me in conversation about my dietary preferences." He meant it to sound quizzical. He was just thinking out-loud. He really didn't understand what the hell was going on.

The man immediately sunk back into himself, though. His face was wiped clean of all emotion in a way that would have made Sarek proud, and he said "Of course. My apologies, good _sir_. Will there be anything else, _sir_? Anything at all, _sir_?"

Spock actually wanted to get a plastic fork, in case anyone who might happen to eat his lunch wanted to eat the tuna salad out of the sandwich first. Yet he felt caged in the barrage of 'sirs,' too much politeness holding him in and up to some pathetic little standard, and while he didn't understand it, he felt the familiar knowing that he was being made fun of. He felt his face flush, and he said, "No, thank-you." And then, because he felt as if he owed this man something, somehow, he added a quick and rather informal "Live long and prosper." Said rather quickly.

The man snorted, and whatever anger there had been in his eyes vanished. "Um… yeah. You too, man."

Spock nodded, face a little hot, and then walked quickly down the street.

The Boy was standing, leaning against the wall. He appeared to have at least attempted to clean himself. His skin was the clear, freckled golden of someone who spent their life out in the sun, and his hair was a tangled dirty-blond mess dried-back. His stubbled beard was gone, but there were little flecks of dried blood on his face that seemed to suggest he'd used a blunt knife to rid himself of it.

He stared quizzically at Spock, and Spock tried not to think of chess.

The stench was still there, but less intense. Or perhaps Spock was becoming used to it. This did not seem relevant to the creation of the isolated pavement island, however – the people flowed far around the interruption in their normalcy just as they had before.

The blue eyes watched him. Pinned him. He felt as if he could feel their gaze, a tangible thing on his body. Heat rose up over the blacktop in waves, and to Spock, as he approached The Boy, it seemed he was a narrow, golden creature standing steadily in a wavering flood of water.

Spock looked away, because this was ridiculous.

He dropped his sandwich in the trash can.

"Oh! Free trash! I think I'll get it… now!"

Spock's head jerked up, staring at the boy. He could still feel the rush of moving back and forth, back and forth, a game unfolding between them as if it were already there, and they were merely uncovering it. Allowing it to seep through.

Brown eyes connected with blue as if snapping into place, and he couldn't look away as the boy smiled oddly at him – a little bemused, a little indignant. As he reached into the trash, lifting the sandwich out, which rested delicately atop an old box. He slowly unwrapped it, biting into it. He finally broke the eye contact, shutting his own eyes and chewing, as if this sandwich from Melting Pot (and now from the trash) was the most delicious delicacy he'd ever sunk his teeth into.

"Mmm." He positively moaned. "Mayo."

_"Pardon me."_ Spock bolted. He could hear the boy's cackles behind him as he streaked down the street, diving into the throng of people and leaving it all behind him.

His heart was beating fast by the time he got to the park, and he spent a full minute simply trying to process why, precisely, he had found it logical to _run away_, particularly to this place, to this table, where...

It seemed incredibly ridiculous, now. Most of what he did seemed extremely illogical to him five minutes after it had happened. All of him. Everything. Simply a complete inability to function as he wished, and every pathetic desire to do so.

* * *

For a long time, Spock sat in the park, watching as couples and groups passed through. He breathed slowly. The grass had just been mown, and he could taste the life of it in the air. The scent of bread and burnt sugar wafted over to him from a silver truck across the way, and he could hear a group of giggly girls conversing in the center of the park, all of them gathered on a blanket. They were Freshman at his school – he recognized their uniform. One of them must have recognized his, for he saw a single dark hand lift up and wave at him, a toothy grin shining in the underclassman's face. He nodded curtly to her, and looked away, attempting not to intrude. He needn't have worried. She turned back to her friends after only a second of eye contact.

Spock stared up at the clouds. At the sky, a vast expanse of perfect blue. He would never become used to a blue sky. Such an unnatural color in great abundance right above him, an ocean suspended above all of them, flowing untouched and perfect, ready to fall.

He shut his eyes.

Oh, yes. He was so very, painfully illogical sometimes, without even meaning to be.

* * *

AN: Hope you liked it. :-) Review, please. Hearing your thoughts makes me happy. And thanks so much to everyone who reviewed and favorited and alerted so far. *hugs for you*


	4. Hurricane

**Title: **Let It All Go

**Author: **anonpersona

**Universe/Series: **Reboot, AU

**Rating:** PG13

**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash

**Accumulated Word Count: **12,168

**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship

**Tropes:** academy, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess

**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP

**Additional Pairings:** Background Sulu/Chekov, vague Spock/Uhura fail

**Summary: **Prompted on kink meme (**/st_xi_kink_**) I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.

* * *

"I have researched the project and find it irrelevant to my interests. I doubt that those in need of science officers will be impressed by an intellectual victory in the field of sociology."

"Sociology is a science, dear. It's a science. I promise you."

"This remains to be seen. It seems pertinent to add that a commanding officer of Starfleet who finds him or herself in need of a science officer is more likely to view the components of the physical world as more of a science."

"And what makes you say that? Was it a scientific study of commanding officers and what they look for in their crew? Because if we're arguing that it's not a science, your argument has been made invalid by your own point, Dear."

"What your mother says is true. Desist using illogical arguments, Spock."

"I do not use illogical arguments. My argument was merely rebuked."

"For god's sake, honey, you don't have to talk to him like that."

"I believe I was 'defending your viewpoint.' Is this not something that ordinarily pleases you?"

"Father is correct, Mother. I have often heard you inform him that you appreciate 'watching him back you up.'"

"This is a private matter. Your input is not needed, particularly to remind us of things we are all already aware of."

"Were you not just speaking of the benefit of 'backing' another individual 'up?'"

"The context was between your mother and I. Your intrusion on a private conversation is not socially acceptable. Your ignorance of this is possibly a factor to your low grade in sociology."

"Your reaction to my comment is perhaps more acceptable for discussion in a psychology class."

"There you go again! And Spock, can you talk like a normal person? You too, Sarek! These days I can talk to either one of you fine on your own, but put both of you together and you turn into two robots!"

There was an uneasy silence. Spock stared directly into the camera, as apposed to glancing into either of his parent's eyes on his PADD. It was very convenient in awkward moments such as this.

His mother let out a sigh. "Spock, Sweety, whether or not it's a science, it looks good. It'll look fantastic to any fleet officer if it seems like his science officer's knowledge and skill-set is well-rounded. Haven't you told me that? Isn't that why you took all those engineering courses freshman year?

While his main motive for taking two engineering classes Freshman year had, admittedly, been because the class included building a 21st century style hovercraft, the point was indeed valid. Spock nodded reluctantly, and said, "I will participate in the competition."

"A most logical choice." His father complimented, as if it hadn't been his idea. Spock felt a very intense need to roll his eyes. When Amanda did it for him, he felt a bit better.

"Ok. Well, we'll see you soon, Spock! Your father hasn't found a good enough time to take that detour yet, but he's working on it." There was an edge to her voice. Spock wondered if it was there to inform him that her and his father were in disagreement. He already knew they were. They'd been in disagreement throughout most of his childhood. He'd been extremely concerned about it around the age of 11, when he had learned this was not how parents of either culture ordinarily act. They had never even come close to annulling the marriage, however, and he had learned long ago that the best option was to stay out of it and keep an eye out for the inevitable reconciliation, which involved such a blatant display of emotionalism in gesture and conversation that it would convince anyone that they were, in fact, most satisfactorily bonded.

"Farewell, mother. I look forward to our meeting."

His father parted his fingers in the Vulcan salute. He did not smile, of course, but there was the very real presence of pleasure. Of _satisfaction._ Spock returned the salute flippantly, and shut off his PADD.

His father had called early. _Early._ He had no idea how the rest of his day was going to go, now. They had interrupted the entire routine, and for a reason as innocuous as Sociology.

He was not annoyed or angry or anything like that, though. The event had simply been… unexpected, and rather odd in a negative fashion.

Sarek's behavior was…

It was not _Vulcan_ of him.

His father's behavior was extraordinarily un-Vulcan. It was controlling. It was not _good_ behavior, in the Vulcan sense of the world.

A Vulcan does not interfere with the lives of others. A Vulcan is distant and calculating. A Vulcan allows events to unfold before them, merely recording the details. To interfere is to understand nothing, for it has been altered by the intrusion of the observer.

His father strove to control everything. He had, for so many years, attempted to convince Spock to continue his education with Vulcan children, whose equally un-Vulcan attitude had made it impossible to function, much less achieve everything. His father acted out of pride. Out of emotion, though he hid it so _very _well.

Spock stopped, feverish with his own realization, his face flushed and his teeth aching in his mouth, pressed together behind the neutral line of his lips.

There was something sharp in him. Something piercing him, making his breathing slightly labored, making something heated to almost searing degrees in his chest. He remembered his father's quick retorts. His father's so carefully veiled, pride-ridden attempts to control even his mother, who would not let him, would never allow herself to be tied down, praise any deity that may or may not (though most likely does not) exist.

How was he expected to be perfect? _Why_ was he, the result of a human mother and a corrupt father, expected to do everything absolutely correctly every minute of every day?

Spock snapped back, feeling the betraying tendrils of self-pity begin to weave their way around his bones, pulling him down, down far, and making too many things out of that which should not matter.

He'd dealt with this enough before school on Earth. He'd dealt with this _thing _enough, back when the insults were logical and perfectly calculated and true, and nothing in him was tamed at all.

It did not matter that his father was a failure. It did not matter if the odds were stacked against him. Surrounded by humans, raised by a lying, emotional 'Vulcan' and a strong, honestly emotional human, Spock would be _Vulcan._

"Hey."

Spock stopped in his tracks.

The Boy was in his path. Staring directly at him.

His gaze was set, and his eyes pinned themselves to Spock, brows drawn together. The only sign of weakness was in his hands, which seemed unsure of where to go. They lay limp at his sides at first, and then fluttered upwards, pale like moths against a pavement set in shadow. They clasped themselves in front of him and then apart, one on each hip like a super-hero.

"I may be proud, but I'm kind of beginning to figure it injures my pride more to dig through a trash can than accept food from a stranger who's so obviously giving it away. So can you just hand me the damn sandwich?" Spock's lips parted, and he felt the sandwich in one hand, his PADD in the other. They both seemed suddenly very heavy, straining against his arms, and when he spoke, his voice was not his own.

"I am merely disposing of excess food. Please step aside." There was a pause, but then The Boy did. His eyes focused on Spock, and he couldn't bring himself in that moment to meet them. The tendrils of suppressed anger gave him a moment of silly strength, though, and he looked straight ahead.

The sandwich dropped into the trashcan with a thud. Spock made the mistake of glancing into the bin to see the remnants of a spilled blue water-ice melting in a puddle, the torn wrapping around the sandwich slowly staining that color as the bread sucked up the liquid like a sponge, becoming sticky as the flies dipped down, buzzing around the treat.

Spock felt sick. He rushed on without turning back. He heard no telltale rustling. He knew the boy wasn't digging through the trash again. And he felt those eyes, those eyes, clear as glass, electric in the grimy, sun-soaked face. They pinned his back to the world behind him, tugging some important strain of consciousness and thought back like a tether, keeping him from fully leaving the scene.

The anger faded fast. It kept him walking for a period of time, this odd, breakable sureness that he had done the 'right' thing, at least. It shattered within the hour, and then, then there was cold, then there was nothing but the rest of the day spent thinking of that sandwich in the trash. A turkey club. Who had he been kidding? He'd been buying a new thing each day, most of it meat, all of it with mayonnaise, not letting himself consider why. When he had just been buying hummus or vegetable stir-fry he could at least tell himself he intended to consume it if he had the time. But meat? How had he justified doing that every day?

The rest of the day was a stomach of raw emptiness. Blue sunk up into perfectly wrapped white a thousand times in his mind, and eyes pinned him down, _hungry hungry hungry…_

He arrived back to his dorm earlier than he usually did. He did not slowly walk, lingering at especially peaceful places. He did not watch the interactions of those around him. He had an irrational fear that The Boy was there. That he was everywhere, watching him, exhausted and starving at once. The sky was darkening; Spock wondered if it was going to rain. If The Boy had any sheltered place where he slept. Spock stared at his dorm – it had originally seemed so sparse, yet he was now amazed at his bed, set up on risers so that he could easily fit his abundance of excess items under it. Food and clean clothing in easy reach. Climate control and a ventilation system. Books that he didn't need and those he did need, in order to finish school and move on to bigger, better, high-paying things. A chess set. A _roof. _

This had to end. It was good that it ended now. Good that he could still feel those eyes at his back. Struck through him, but in no kind of violent way. Expectant. The Boy had expected this him to do this. He wouldn't expect Spock to return. He expected Spock to be… Vulcan. Eventually, even if he had faltered at first.

Yes. It was good that this had ended now. With a gaze too considering to be truly angry. With that other Boy watching, studying, remaining distant and not interfering. It made Spock know he should as well.

That gaze had seemed to stroke down over his spine like a finger, touching only enough to make him aware of it. Very aware.

He shut his eyes and lay back on his pillow. For once he was truly exhausted after the required lights-out time. He didn't try to read – though it made no sense, he felt as if the words would jumble and spill over the edge of the PADD and across his hands and fingers, etching themselves into all of them, tiny black marks of stories that weren't his, facts that were not _him,_ things across his body that he didn't own and couldn't erase…

Exhaustion claimed him. He sunk into sleep, the people in the surrounding dorms giggling and chatting in the darkness far into the night.

* * *

"So I guess we could do 'shake someone's hand with your left hand.' I mean, that's not too strange. And it's pretty easy. And interesting."

"I would be adverse to shaking hands."

Uhura let out a huff, and he saw her eyes roll, but she smiled at him in something of a friendly way regardless.

Ever since the… incident... he and Uhura had been spending time outside of class generally conversing in a way that could possibly be considered 'friendly.' She no longer snickered at the things he did, and he no longer caught her staring directly at him, clearly judging him, when he looked up. She didn't offer to do things for him anymore, as if he couldn't do them himself, and while he seemed to 'annoy' her occasionally, her attitude towards him seemed relatively good. She seemed less unhappy about being paired with him, though he sometimes wondered - in a scientific manner, of course - if she would still switch partners if given permission to.

He didn't quite understand why, but he didn't question it. He didn't bother thinking about it too much. There was enough on his mind, these days.

"Ok. Fine." She smiled at him. "OCD." She said in a sing-song voice, but her grin slipped away as he stiffened.

"… Is a really normal thing to have. I'm not making fun of you. Ok? Please believe I'm not trying to be mean to you. I don't even think you have it. You just like things to be perfect. And… clean. I'm not making fun of you."

"It is difficult to judge the intent of social interactions on Earth." Spock said stiffly. "They are all intensely illogical, and often include rather pointless lies."

"But I'm not." Uhura was staring at him. Her eyes were a soft, honeyed chestnut; melting caramel set into velvet brown skin. She was very beautiful. It used to make him ill, somehow. He couldn't understand it, but he used to have unpleasant feelings in his stomach and a rather odd heating of his ears when in her presence, and yet, he had also had to suppress a feeling that was quite obviously _happy in those times as well. He was thankful that this odd period was over. Now she simply looked… honest._

Spock turned back to his paper pointedly. "I would not be adverse to assisting a waiter with the serving of dishes. It appears to be the most normal of the suggestions, along with facing the back wall of an elevator. Both seem exceedingly ordinary."

Uhura gave him another of those half-exasperated, friendly smiles, and said, "Ok. You can do those, then. We could go to the mall after lunch to get started."

There was a long stretch of silence. They were walking down the hall to the exit of the school building, and Spock felt that now-ordinary, feverish moment of suppressed fear. The outside all seemed dangerous to him now, even if both logic and the much less reliable 'intuition' both told him The Boy would never seek him out, never abandon enough pride to come back and beg for a meal to be tossed into the trash every day. He would starve before then, slowly have all his skin and bones devoured by his wasted body before… stop, stop, _stop._

"I believe there are places to purchase sustenance at the 'mall.' Spock quietly intoned.

Uhura squinted at him. The silence continued as they walked outside, and a blanket of heavy, damp heat fell over them. The air was clogged with unfallen rain. A suppressed storm had been brewing for days, the sky gradually getting darker, and now, it was nearly possible to taste the rain poised on the edge of falling. "Spock," Uhura said slowly. "Isn't lunch, like… important to you? Don't you have… you know, something important you do during lunch?"

Spock looked away. "There is no longer a reason to participate in an afternoon meal."

They walked on quietly in the direction of the bus stop, a place in the complete opposite direction of that island of pavement with a single inhabitant, a place Spock hadn't even passed by in more than a week.

"Well… that's good. I mean, that's good, right?" she gave him a shrewd look.

He couldn't meet her eyes, and while some evil part of him fumbled morality for a moment, he was able to say with confidence, "Yes. It is indeed a positive occurrence."

She nodded, smiling at him again, and he still did not meet her eyes.

* * *

The sky darkened.

Storm warning quickly turned into 'Hurricane Warning.' Classes were canceled until further notice.

There was no wind, yet. None at all.

It was so easy to simply walk around as if nothing was wrong.

Meanwhile, the sky was a gray-black, swirling stone above their heads. No trace of perfect blue remained, and everything was going to fall. The air was electric with the impending chaos, and Spock's own blood seemed high and charged in his body.

"It's only a level 2." Uhura said, unconcernedly. She'd lived in more difficult places than this, and, Spock was beginning to figure out, lived with much more of a looming threat. "And all buildings are built to withstand this kind of thing."

"I am aware."

"You don't have to be scared."

"I am not."

"And there are free shelters, you know. For people who don't have a home to live in. You know, just in case any of your friends don't have a home to live in."

"No." Spock said, "I have no such comrade or concern."

She nodded tightly, mouth pursed into a thin line.

Wind began to pick up. Shops began to close in the day before the storm was set to hit, though many of them stayed open for the benefit of those who were staying in the town. And those strange tourists who had arrived simply because of the storm.

There were warnings on all of the news shows that human law enforcement had been reduced to a skeleton crew, but that police-bots would be continuously patrolling after the storm in order to prevent to looting of any abandoned areas. Smog would be incredibly present, and citizens were encouraged to wear masks when outside.

It was so very odd. On the one hand, there was the constant assurance that everything was built to withstand a hurricane. That nothing would perish in something as simple as a storm.

On the other, there was the almost cheerful assumption that death would fall over all of them as soon as the rains hit. And that they were all prepared to pick up and deal with it, and move on as if nothing had happened and no one had suffered for a moment.

* * *

"I shall be fine, Mother. It is simply a trip to the store. The warning has stated that food stores will probably remain closed for a few days after the storm, so I am merely stocking my supplies now, before it closes."

His voice was cold and collected and distant. Wind shuddered outside like a dying, omnipresent thing lain down over everything.

Spock was cool and collected, calm and collected, cool calm collected and _fine. _

* * *

He was so proud. So very proud. He had been starving in the street that first time.

He looked like perhaps he was only a child. Or that, at the very least, he had been there since childhood, and never before accepted help. Never given up anything just for the sake of a meal and a place to sleep.

Why would he start now?

* * *

The drug store's lights flicker and go out.

The world outside is black, as is the inside before the dim emergency lights shudder to life. The older, gruff looking man behind the counter glares at the few customers, saying flatly, "Buy what you need, and then get back to your homes. If you don't do this in the next five minutes, I'm kicking you all out and closing the store anyway."

Spock steps into the line, clutching three packets of frozen vegetable stir-fry and two packets of Just-Add-Water Hummus and Pita. He is fine. He is staring outside at the black. He is breathing shallowly, and the air all seems too big for him, but he is fine. He is –

A blond head and a familiar threadbare sweatshirt. Isle two.

Spock is there before he can think about it. He reaches forward before the action is given consideration, gripping a shoulder, dropping the hummus, feeling something like an electric shock up his arm at the feeling of this living, breathing boy beneath his hand, and…

"I apologize." He said. For a moment they stood, and then Spock took his hand back fast, as if burned. Rather wide, dull gray eyes blinked owlishly back at him from behind thick glasses.

"Hey, no problem, man. I guess I just look like someone you know." The boy said, his grin much less crooked and whiter than the homeless youth's, his hair much darker, and really, the sweatshirt wasn't even the same, and this boy had clearly bathed recently and clearly had a place to sleep at night and was a little plump so obviously had more than enough to consume on a regular basis and was generally not, in any way, The Boy.

"No." Spock said, and his own voice sounded distant. Thunder clapped outside, and then died into a roaring rumble that seemed to shake the world. Lightning set the sky ablaze for a moment, and the air waited, charged, for the next crash of noise, which erupted from the heavens a mere few seconds afterwards. "I don't know him."

Spock turned back and put his food back into the refrigerated section. He felt something of his consciousness floating high, his limbs distant, breakable things on the ground, in the store. Reaching forwards and buying nine wrapped sandwiches, one for each day he had not thrown one away. None of them vegetarian. The bag is heavy in his hand, and he shoves it into his pack.

He feels himself running. He feels the cold rain pelting him, soaking through his clothes and making it stick to his skin. His skin itself is nothing more than a cold layer of something separate from him, shaking against his bones. He blinks the water out of his eyes and runs, runs down the street he had walked down every day in his minds eye, even as he had avoided it like the plague.

"Hey!" he shouted. The word tasted strange in his mouth, and rain fell between his teeth, slipping over his tongue and down his throat, chilling his insides to equal his outside self. Water squished between his toes.

'Hey.' That was what The Boy had said. Three letter word. A greeting. Not a cry for help. Not any kind of question. Not the words "Save me."

Spock screamed it again, and his voice was only a whisper of sound over the storm. "Hey!" he stepped into the street, a river rushing down the harshly dipping hill. A motorcyclist shouted angrily, and he leapt out of the way, the horn blaring like mechanical thunder and a wave of water rising up from the wheels, dousing his already drenched form. He watched the singular prick of light vanish into the looming darkness about a block away.

That's when he saw it. Motion. Just a small motion.

Spock's legs had carried him there before he could give them permission to, and his hands had already fallen on the shoulders of the skinny, sunken form of The Boy.

The Boy was wearing the same clothes as always. His head was against his knees, and his bony arms wrapped around his drenched jeans, shoulders jutting up as a small, pathetic barrier of skin, bones, and fabric.

He didn't move when Spock shook him, and his head lolled. His hands were no longer gripping his elbows, as it seemed they had been before. His body was leaning against the wall of an apartment complex.

Spock shook him again, and this time he whispered it. "Hey."

The boy's head tipped back, his mouth partially open, those intense eyes half lidded and unseeing. And just the barest breath of air puffed from his chapped lips, breaking against Spock's face, the touch lighter than a feather.

Water ran over Spock's face, a nearly violent caress. The wind hid his own broken breathing, allowed him to hide his own reaction from even himself. Warmth and cold terror warred within his chest, and he didn't even try suppress them, _couldn't even try._

His arms slipped around The Boy and lifted him gently, he head fitting into the curve of his neck as if they had both been shaped for just this.

The walk to his dorm seemed to take longer than it normally did. He could feel the faint heartbeat of The Boy against his ribs, and his breath against his shoulder. When he finally did make it to his room, leaving a trail of puddles beyond him, he lowered the limp form gently to his bed, tossing an extra blanket over him hap-hazardly and grabbing his communicator.

Nothing. The signal was unable to get past the clouds.

There was an emergency alert line, but that was downstairs in the lobby. And he didn't want to leave The Boy alone. He couldn't leave The Boy alone.

So instead, he gathered his own towels, tugging off the hole-ridden shoes and replacing them with the dry, warm fabric. He wrapped one around the boys head, rubbing it over the uncut blond hair, immediately thinking back in a painful flash to being very young, and having his mother do this to him. She would hide his face first, drying his hair gently, and then jerk the towel back, saying "There you are, nice and dry!"

Suddenly, it seemed like all he needed was for her to be here. With him, with this boy. He had the illogical thought that she would know what to do and would know how to handle all of it. Which, of course, wasn't true. She wasn't a medical professional. She didn't know how to handle this at all.

Spock turned up his thermostat, which was already set higher than average. He pulled his desk chair over by the bed, and kept a hand on the towel on the boy's head, as if this small touch would somehow help. A stone seemed to be lodged in his throat, making him ache more with each precious shallow intake of breath, with each small lessening of the shuddering wracking The Boy's body. He felt as if someone had scooped out some integral part of him, and it was now dying, rested over this boy's chest on the bed.

So illogical.

He pushed the thought away.

Now – now was not the time to be considering how illogical his actions were. It would only lead, inevitably, to doing the 'right' thing, and Spock didn't know if either of them would survive him being morally correct again.

So instead, Spock sat down, keeping his hand on that towel, a few inches away from cupping The Boy's hallow, bristle-strewn cheek. He listened to the shallow breathing and the bail of the storm, and he waited.

* * *

AN: There seems to be this idea of a perfect world in the future, or at least Star Trek's future. I for one have never been a fan of either dystopias or utopias, so my Star Trek future is still affected by Global Warming. Which is why there's a hurricane in San Francisco. O_o

Review, please! I love hearing your opinions. 3


	5. Sehlat

**Title: Let It All Go**

**Author: anonpersona on livejournal, Wallpaper on fanfiction dot net. :-P we're the same person. **

******Universe/Series: Reboot, AU  
****Rating: PG13  
****Relationship Status: slowbuilding leading to slash  
****Accumulated Word Count: 15,475  
****Genre: Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship  
****Tropes: academy, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess  
****Warnings: None as of yet, besides WIP  
****Additional Pairings: Background Sulu/Chekov, vague Spock/Uhura fail  
****Summary: Prompted on kink meme (.com/st_xi_kink_) I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.**

* * *

When Spock was very small and there were sehlats to be fed, he had fed them.

He could still remember standing guiltily in his dome at school every day, answering all the questions, proving to a computer that he was a Vulcan, and knowing that outside the immediate world made up of coded information and basic genetic facts, he was not.

He would sit there, watching the creatures soft pink tongues curl around the small morsels of food, guilt seeming to unfurl like a living beast beneath his skin. Guilt. A horrible emotion. It was the most difficult to suppress, because it was so very_ inspired in Vulcan culture. Guilt and__ thought himself quite a master of all the others, these days._

Guilt, though.

He was betraying his people and the sehlats by feeding them. He was stepping away from 'The Scientist' and warping morality. What his mother said didn't matter so long as he strove to remain on the side he had chosen a short few years ago, when his father had made him decide.

Morality was different between the two cultures. This had to be understood. Human morality was made up of self-sacrifice and interference and pain – it was a mish mash of every struggle in the world melded together, allowing something beyond even one's own chaos to enter into the soul. It was the taking on of another person's emotional burdens. It was feeling _more._

Vulcan morality had to do with the code of ethics around any scientific operation. It stated that life was for the gaining of knowledge, so that this knowledge may help with scientific advancement. There was no 'saving a life.' There was 'improving a future of many lives.' Which, when observed objectively, made more sense.

Eventually, the sehlats grew, and some stopped returning to the alley Spock paused at every day on his way to school. Most grew more wild – he was not the only Vulcan they would meet, and they had doubtlessly met others who showed them less... affection. He was merely the one who fed them, and he knew from the marred flesh and the glowing bloom of distrust in their eyes, spreading like a bruise, that there were others. The one who beat them. The one who trapped them. People he would most likely never meet, yet was irreversibly connected to, now.

One, however, seemed to trust him even as the months and then, years, went on, and both sehlat cub and Vulcan child grew older, until they were both teetering on the edge of adolescence.

By this point, Spock was quite pointedly _rebelling_against his father.

Spock began to visit more often. The Sehlat began to follow him around. He didn't have Her 'trained,' as the sehlat companions of Vulcan were. She did not sit absolutely still when he told her to, and she did not wait patiently for her food. She behaved more like a Terran canine would, leaping up on him gleefully, cuddling up against him to show affection, and occasionally attempting to lick his face in a friendly fashion. He would run with her in the desert, and in the end, they would both collapse, panting. Her tongue would lull from her mouth like a roll of wet cloth between the sharp shining needles of her small teeth, and she would press a paw against him as he lay, sun seeming to bake his lungs and heart in the oven made by the dark, thick fabric of his school uniform. In these years, he was comforted by the fact that this far out, if he were to scream, if he were to shout obscenities and laugh and cry and do anything he would never, ever do, she would be the only one to hear him. His speechless, secret, untamed companion.

He never did those things, of course. But the potential freedom seemed to run beneath the cracked dirt and her own calloused paws against his arm like blood. He worried without really worrying, anticipated without really anticipating, that he would somehow prick his own control and everything would well up and bleed out.

It wasn't long, of course, before his father discovered what was going on. He'd ordered Spock to cease and desist. Spock had replied snarkily. The exchange had escalated, and it had quickly became the one and only time he had ever shouted at his father. The only time he had ever let the person who so judged him on his Vulcanness see him truly slipping. And the loss was not at all like bleeding. It was not freeing. It was more like something had been shoved into his ribs and lodged there.

He'd been, as his mother called it, 'grounded.' For once, she had been agreement with his father, though she seemed to be of the opinion that the 'grounding' was for a few choice words he had called his father, and not for his persistent feeding of The Sehlat.

'Grounded' meant that he was driven to class on his father's motorcycle. He was dropped off. He was then picked up. They also rather needlessly included that he wasn't aloud to 'hang out' with 'friends.'

It was on the third day that he saw Her.

They were on their way back, and Spock had glanced up at the alley, as he always did. And there She was.

The Sehlat stood at the mouth of the shadow between the two buildings, watching, head moving slowly back and forth. As they passed, her golden, slit-pupil eyes snapped to him, and she began to paw after them.

Spock watched, silent. He didn't need to say anything. He knew his father had seen her.

As apposed to parking the cycle out front and allowing their valet to take it into the garage as he normally did, Sarek rode right inside, clicking a button so the door closed immediately after them. Spock saw her paws cantering towards the door right before the last chink of light closed off, and it was dark.

His father stood. He removed his own helmet and then, when it became apparent Spock wasn't immediately springing into action, removed Spock's as well.

"Attend to your studies." Sarek said flatly, as if nothing was going on.

Spock went up to his room. He stared out the window at Her in the street. She looked back up at him, and they both waited for the other to move.

When they left in the morning, The Sehlat was there, and She again followed him. She waited outside his school, though he saw her being chased off the second day as his father was escorting him inside. Afterwards, She waited in a side alley. He knew because he saw Her spring out of it, each day, when his father's motorcycle burst from the school garage.

About a week after this began, he noticed She was lagging a bit behind.

When he turned back and really studied Her, he realized She was thinner. Much thinner. Skin and bones and spotted fur, She ran stumbling after the bike. He saw her pink tongue flapping from her yellow teeth as if it wasn't even part of her, merely a chunk of useless skin She had forgotten how to use.

She stumbled over Her paw. Spock knew he let out a noise when another motorbike emitted a loud honk and then quickly veered around her. The driver buzzed off calmly, without looking back.

He watched Her still form from a growing distance. Then She slowly rose, and began to canter after him again. Stumbling. Fumbling her paws. Panting. Following him loyally.

She collapsed in front of the family home once they got there, not even bothering with Her usual desperate, pointless sprint to make it under the garage door. Spock felt sick.

"Your anger towards me is illogical." His father said.

Spock stared at him, his eyes icy, his heart thudding in his chest. He didn't even try to deny the emotion.

"I am not the one who raised the creature dependant on an outside source of food. If she had been left alone, she would have adapted to her environment while growing up. She would have sought the company of other sehlats, as apposed to Vulcans. She would have learnt to fend for herself and to feed herself."

Spock said nothing.

"As it is, you have created a wild pet."

Spock took off his helmet, chucking it at the floor. He walked quickly up to his room, not stopping to say hello to his mother, not looking up from his own dark shoes. He felt as if he had been slowly swallowing sharp, painful stones, and just now felt the weight of all of them in his chest. His throat was raw.

He looked out the window for all of that night. He didn't even do his homework, he simply watched Her.

For a long time She sat upright, looking at his window, knowing he was there and not going to Her, not feeding and petting and caring for Her, but She remained faithfully loyal none the less. Eventually She lay down, a collection of knees and sharp little paws and the very beginnings of fangs.

By morning, she was gone.

He discovered a few weeks later that his father had called someone to collect Her. That She was still alive and living in a training center for those who wished to work with sehlats and make them into companions. She would never be a companion Herself – those had to be specially bred, and trained by a professional since birth. She would be a challenge, however, to those wishing to learn how difficult the job could be.

He didn't know where, specifically, She was. A few times he made half-hearted, secretive attempts to find out, but they yielded nothing.

His father's saving of Her life made him forgivable. It made Vulcan morality less evil than he thought it was, even if it was equally lonely.

It made morality make sense.

He never did anything like that again. Never.

* * *

Spock's back hurts.

There is something very hard and pointy jutting into it, and his neck is at a very strange angel. He can feel drool on his chin, and his clothes are cold and damp around him. He is sitting in a pool of cool water, and his legs are all goosebumped and cold against his bones. His chest is tight.

This is not what has woken him, however.

Movement.

He feels a motion near his hand, which is the only part of his body that's warm. First a low rustle, and then a sudden jerking motion. There's silence for a while, and Spock's body aches too much, and for a few short moments, he doesn't know what's going on.

And then he does.

In a flash, his head is up and his eyes are open, his neck cracking painfully.

For half a second, blue eyes meet brown. They are both absolutely still. It is a very brief second.

"Argh!"

"Ouh-"

The foot that Spock remembered so kindly wrapping in a towel is suddenly in his gut, and he sputters, his chest deflating in and instant and, in horrible dizziness, refusing to accept air.

The Boy stumbles, managing to crash down onto the floor. He reaches up, getting a firm grip on the bedpost, and Spock can see his legs quivering with the effort, his knuckles whited out and his gaunt, staved face in a harsh grimace.

"Wait," Spock said, his voice gruff as he breathed. He stood, shivering at the unearthly feeling of cold, stagnant water suddenly running down his drying legs. "I do not intend any harm,"

"Who the fuck are you? Where am I?"

"I am Spock. S'chen T'gai Spock, of Vulcan…"

"I'm on _Vulcan?"_

"_Negative. We are both on Earth at this time."_

"What do you want? Because I don't have nothing, so it can only be _so many things."_

The boy is shouting, and Spock hears the tell-tale rustle of the boy in the dorm next to him waking up, and he acts without thinking. Spock shoves the boy back, clamping a hand over his mouth. The boy's eyes widen. "You must be silent. Having guests over-night is disallowed, and if you are discovered, both of us would face consequences."

He pulls back with a sharp hiss, though, when the boy bites down on his sensitive fingers and a burst of absolute _painshoots up his wrist. As he pulls away, the boy lets out another weak, fumbling kick, and it misses._

"Do you have no recollection of me?" Spock says in a harsh hiss.

There is another silence, and then, dawning comprehension. Shock, suspicion, and something so very close to joy… The Boy's face was naked to interpretation, almost too easy to read.

"You…"

He pushed his quivering body up to standing and swayed forwards, gripping the edge of Spock's chair instead of his bed. Spock's eyes widened.

"I suggest that you do not-"

It was too late. The chair tipped backwards at the very first suggestion of pressure being put on it, and The Boy's weak form crashed down with it, his head cracking against the seat with a sharp snap.

He didn't move.

Just when Spock was beginning to wonder how he could so easily fail so incredibly at being morally incorrect, Spock heard stomping feet, a mumbled oath, and the swift beep of a security card passing over the scanner outside his door. His RA shoved his way into the room, wearing nothing but boxers and a T-shirt, sleep leery on his face, and growled lividly "What the hell is going on in here?"

Spock stared at his RA, Leonard McCoy.

Leonard McCoy stared at the unconscious form on Spock's floor, and then at Spock's face (which was _neutral), and then at The Boy again._

"… god-dammit…"

* * *

The man's hands worked diligently as he checked over the boy's prone form, now carefully laid out over Spock's bed again. Spock hovered rather uselessly at his side as the pre-med student carefully pressed his thumb into an eyebrow, lifting the thin, pink lid of the eye to reveal of flash of blue and creamy white riddled with veins.

He tilted the head from side to side, and the dusky sun caught the hallows of his cheeks and threw an obvious degree of starvation back at both of them. McCoy paused for a moment, watching, and then reached into the medical bag he had snagged wordlessly from his room an instant after seeing The Boy.

He hadn't said a word since. So the next sentence, gruff, blank, and so very collected, surprised him. "How long has he been on the streets?"

Spock stared at him. For a moment he considered questioning _how, but he decided against it by the odd glint McCoy's eyes, despite the otherwise calm demeanor._

"It is unknown to me." There was a silence, and then, because it seemed important, somehow, Spock added "His name is unknown to me."

He'd meant it to sound less sad and oddly surprised.

McCoy nodded, scanning The Boy and then pressing his fingers into the sides of his ribs, holding a blood-disease detector against his wrist and waiting for the soft beep. Checking his nails, pulling back the silent, slack mouth and checking the yellowed teeth. A strange ritual occurring over the unconscious body before both of them, and Spock couldn't shake the feeling of all of that anger and fear wrapped up in sleep, beneath all the physical maladies being slowly calculated by the future doctor.

"He's not concussed. It's more that he fainted than that hitting his head did much. I'm going to wake him up, now. That ok? He wasn't trying to kill you when he wiped out, was he?"

"No." Spock said, though this was not necessarily true. The point was, The Boy wouldn't have been successful if that had been his intention.

McCoy reached back into the bag, this time tugging out a hypo, the dull silver glinting dimly in the sun. And then, in a manner that was quite antithetical to the gentle way he had checked The Boy's body for harm, he jabbed the thing into His neck and released it.

The Boy woke with a sharp yell, jerking partially forward on the bed before collapsing again, a bony hand flitting to his neck. "the fuck – "

"You knocked yourself out trying to hold onto a chair for support." The RA said, rolling his eyes spectacularly and shoving the used hypo into a plastic container filled with a gelled cleansing solvent, and then back into the bag. "This is a dorm room. We don't get special amenities like chairs that don't spill ya."

A pause. The Boy's eyes were wide, and he blinked them, gaze flitting around manically before coming to rest on Spock. It may have been his imagination, but Spock thought he saw the face, contorted wit worry, relax the tiniest bit.

"What's your name?" McCoy said flatly, getting right to the point.

"Jim." The Boy said, and then winced. "Crap. I mean… um, yeah, sure. Jim. Whatever."

"Great. An escaped convict." McCoy said.

"I'm not. I've never been to jail."

"Comforting."

The Boy – Jim – cracked a rather bemused grin. "I'm full of comfort." He said.

"When was the last time you ate?"

"Why am I here? You said it was a dorm room. Harvard? U-Penn? Oxford? This kid's sharp as a fucking _whip, I'm telling ya, so all I know is that it's a very good school I'm at. But I want to know – why am I here?"_

Jim was staring over McCoy's head, right at Spock, and Spock was about to attempt to say something when McCoy sharply interrupted. "Yeah, yeah, you predict the future, woo-hoo, 'Why is this homeless boy in here' is indeed one of my future questions. But for now, can you just do what I say and answer my questions? I am the doctor, here."

"Not as of now." Spock added.

McCoy and the boy both looked at him.

"I meant to say that as of this moment, you are merely a Starfleet Academy pre-med student with a minor in psychology, correct?"

Jim laughed. It was a weak, shuddery noise from a partially concave chest, and it sounded as if it hurt a bit, but he did it anyway, which was very illogical. "Shut up." McCoy said flatly.

"Seriously. Jim. When was the last time you ate?"

Jim kept smiling, though it darkened a bit. "Yesterday." He said.

"You're lying."

"I'm not."

"So, what, you ate a cookie or something? The crust off of someone's sandwhich? Part of a shoe?"

"Shoes aren't edible, these days. Or so I hear."

"Seriously."

Jim lifted a hand to his face, rubbing at his mouth, as if checking to see if the tight lipped grin was still immaculate. "There were two little ritze cheese crackers left inside one of those packages of six. Someone just kind of threw them at me. If you mean a full meal…" His eyes flashed up to Spock, and Spock felt the familiar feeling of being pinned. "I don't know if it counted, though. It was a cheeseburger someone threw out, and it tasted like shit and I ended up loosing it a few minutes after. Spock gave me the last… full _ediblemeal the day before the burger. A gyro. Maybe about a week ago?"_

"Approximately 11 days ago." Spock said in clipped tones. "I have not introduced myself to you. How do you know my name?"

"That girl yelled after you after you ran away from a second game of chess with me, _ha." The 'ha,' meant for amusement, fell flat._

"Ooooo-kay then. Spock – go into my room, there's a replicator in there, here's my meal card – get a container of plain rice and water. Just water and just plain white rice, ok?"

Spock did as told. As he approached his door again, he heard the two conversing inside.

" – going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you've tried all the alternatives to the street before and there's no one I can really call to come an' get you."

"I'd run if you tried. Hell, I'll be out of here soon. Not gonna impose on anybody."

"Like hell you - "

"You are not imposing." Spock said cooly, walking into the room. He put the rice and the water on his bedside table, standing what felt like too-close to Jim for a few seconds. Odd, how it had seemed so comfortable and fine – more a relief than anything – to have been so close to him the night before, yet now, it seemed almost dangerous.

It obviously had nothing to do with morality. He had quite obviously failed spectacularly at morality, and he might as well throw that away. No use trying to be good now.

"I was on my way back from a supermarket and found you unconscious. It was not any trouble for me to assist you. The hurricane – while minor – could have been harmful if an individual was not indoors. It was logical of me to bring you indoors."

Jim snorted. He reached forwards, an odd grin on his face, and Spock leapt back. Which was very illogical, as Jim wouldn't have been able to reach him anyway. "Your hair," Jim said, "It's dried really funny. Away from your head. You look like you have some kind of punk hair-cut, instead of that bowl one. How long were you out in the rain?"

Spock said nothing.

* * *

AN: I'm going to be updating this weekly, now, in the hopes that by the time I can stay ahead writing-wise. The next few chapters are already written and everything. Sorry about the delay in updates this time - first college was throwing work at me, and then fanfiction dot net was just being a bitch. o_o Did this happen to anyone else? I would try to log in and it would be like "AIN'T GONNA HAPPEN."

Um, anyway. ^_^' Hope you guys liked it. Don't know how I feel about this chapter. Please review! I love hearing your thoughts. 3


	6. Pet

**Title: **Let It All Go  
**Author:** anonpersona  
**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash  
**Accumulated Word Count:** 19,412  
**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship  
**Tropes:** academy, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess  
**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP  
**Additional Pairings:** Background Sulu/Chekov, vague Spock/Uhura fail  
**Summary:** Prompted on kink meme (.com/st_xi_kink_) I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.  
**AN: ** This chapter dedicated to my lovely, shiny, AMAZING new beta notboldly50295 at livejournal dot com .Also, in my universe, they are one year apart, and McCoy is maybe three years older than Spock. Also, I don't believe that the future world is a perfect utopia. Please review! I love you guys and your words. 3 

* * *

"Hell in a hand basket, kid! What the hell do you think you're doing, eating so fast? Didn't anyone tell you to _take it slow once in a while?_"

Jim only let out a choking cough in response, the meager meal of white rice looking slickly wet and inadequate as it was sprayed across the bedspread, bits clinging to Jim's face as if it were attempting to devour him instead. Spock's first instinct—to obtain something more sufficient for a starving man—was suppressed, in the need to obey the future doctor. As well as the almost heavy thought that that simple action would equate more of an emotional response than any act he had committed thus far. It was probably _better _to not even question it.

"Are you certain that such basic sustenance is adequate?" Spock questioned.

"I might not yet be a licensed doctor—" McCoy paused to scowl at Spock, illogically, for his earlier stated fact "—but I do know he's not going to be able to hold down anything with more substance, his stomach's been mostly empty for so long. Hell if I know how this idiot of yours has managed to survive up till now."

"I'm still in the _room_, you know. Right here. In front of you."

"Which is where you're _staying_." McCoy growled.

"With this degree of emaciation, would it not be pertinent to relocate him to a hospital or—"

"No. No hospitals." The cocky, reflexive smile fled from Jim, to be replaced with a hard, cold expression that only enhanced the cage of bones and hallow skin that was his face, pores empty hungry things across bony cheeks and a sharp, sloping jaw. He seemed as if he would be translucent in too bright a light.

"I'm fine. Really."

Spock watched as Jim picked at the small grains that had scattered around him, popping them quickly into his mouth as if sowing them as seeds beneath his lips.

McCoy lost his patience.

"You're about as _fine_ as a three-day corpse, and with almost as much life! You can't be more than a teenager, younger than me, I'll bet."

"I'm seventeen," said Jim with a kind of whining indignation ordinarily found in a child steadfastly convinced of his own adulthood.

"Which is just about the dumbest age anyone can be! Kid, you can't just stay on the street; in the shape you're in, that storm probably would've killed you if this brat hadn't taken you in. It's not even safe for you to _move_ at this time, much less _survive on your own_."

"I've survived this long on my own."

"And how long is that, exactly?"

Jim fell silent, tight lipped, unblinking. McCoy sighed. And for all his youth, for a moment, too many witnessed hardships seemed etched like lines and shadows into his face.

"Alright,_ fine._ If you won't go find your own damn way with any sort of sense, then I guess—"

"Jim may stay here."

Jim looked at him with a blank expression, almost carefully neutral, but the words that had come unbidden from Spock's mouth received no response from McCoy except a dismissive, tired sigh.

"Students aren't allowed to keep pets, remember? I am."

"What am I, a cat?"

"I'd say you were more of a dog, if I had to choose. Not that I know you well enough to make important life and soul decisions like that. But it's probably better if you stay in my dorm. It's bigger, and it would be slightly easier to hide you, and something tells me Spock doesn't really want to have something like being in possession of a boy on his permanent record."

"It seems logical that he remain here." Spock said quickly. They both looked at him. Jim's eyes were shining with mirth, and McCoy's brows were raised incredulously, angry brown caterpillars above his vicious little eyes. "You yourself stated that it would not be wise to move him at this time as his body must recover from the ordeal. My punishment if discovered would also not be as extreme as yours, and likely lessened simply by the fact of my father's influence."

There was another silence in which both of them looked at Spock in very different ways that were similar only in that they both made him distinctly uncomfortable.

"I'd actually prefer to stay with this guy." Jim said, finally. "I mean, so long as he's cool with it. And so long as I need to. Or… so long as it's better that I do. I don't need to." He turned to Spock, and his gaze slid down and pinned him again. "I don't need to. No matter what _he_ says."

"He's wrong. He's a liar. He needs to."

"I'm no one's burden, ok? No one's 'good deed.'" His voice was suspended in the air between them, cutting through any jovial relaxation that might have been there before. "Don't make me that."

"Keeping you here is not a 'good deed.'" Spock said crisply. Oddly enough, he felt no need to suppress any kind of humiliation at admitting his defeat to Jim and the future doctor. "In Vulcan culture, this is actually considered a failure of morality."

"A _failure?_ So up on that boiling piece of red rock you folks call a planet, if you see some guy stuck in hard times, it's considered 'good' to just keep on walkin'?"

Spock threw McCoy a distinctly disapproving look. "It would be more correct to alert the authorities to the display of despondency, so that the individual could be moved to a less public location." He said, keeping his voice level.

_"What?"_

Jim was laughing. Spock was oddly light around his bones. "That's fantastic! So you're really being kind of naughty by helping me out, aren't you?" There was a pause, and then Jim said "And when I say 'naughty,' I mean it in a way that is not at all kinky or… sex."

"For the love of _god_." McCoy muttered, dragging a hand over his face.

"It is considered inappropriate behavior, yes." Spock said. He was having a very confusing problem, in that it seemed as if the situation warranted a certain amount of guilt, which he shouldn't be feeling as a Vulcan, yet it seemed as if, as a Vulcan, he should feel it, but he shouldn't, and he wasn't, but as he was Vulcan –

"That's fantastic. That's… I don't even know. Actually, I was kind of planning on getting out of here as soon as I could even slightly walk, regardless of what Doc here says, but now that I know that you consider this to be an 'inappropriate' thing, I think I'll stick around until I can really get a hold of things. So long as I'm a bad deed instead of a good one, so long as you want me here, I think I can live with this." His grin was wide and yellow, almost painfully honest, and his eyes were filled with a mirthful, sharp light. "It's exciting."

"Thanks, by the way, for saying all that. Now I know to lock the dorms from the inside too at night." McCoy said, smirking.

"That would be problematic. I frequently walk at night, in order to clear my mind for meditation."

"We have a curfew, you know."

"It is an illogical time to retire."

"So you just don't _follow_ it? Why am I even surprised?"

Spock paused. He didn't feel guilty about that, either. In fact, his blood seemed to sing in his veins, and his chest was full and zinging with a heady energy. "There is no point in following illogical laws," The words held a kind of heavy, delicious potential in his mouth, each cupped like a precious stone with his tongue, his lips tingling from them.

He tried not to think about it. And he did, anyway. 

* * *

McCoy drags a spare mattress into Spock's dorm, the noise of fabric rubbing over rug a rushing white noise, and it seems neither of them have thought about how many of his fellow dorm-mates would stick their heads out their doors, staring at the goings-on in the hall. McCoy swears quietly, lifting his head and scowling at them, making all of them stick their heads pointedly back inside. They don't close their doors, though. Many of them never close their doors. Spock doesn't understand how they stand it.

The only spare sheets he has are white, and in the end, the makeshift bed seems too bright in his room, which is mostly made up of grays and blacks. The dorm is small, so it's pressed up against his desk chair on one end and blocking the door from opening entirely on the other. _It's inhibiting my studies._ He thinks. And then, the oddest thought, _There is no point to studying there._ An almost angry thought. Though of course it's not. It's not.

McCoy flicks off the light before they're ready, before some level of comfort with everything here has been reached, though he wonders if they would have reached it anyway. It takes him a moment to adjust to the darkness, and he turns and sees Jim, eyes wide and staring at his ceiling, mouth partially open, frozen and expressionless in a way only people who don't expect to be visible in the dark can be.

"Goodnight." McCoy shouts gruffly behind him through the closed door. Spock hears a few returning sentiments from those in his hall, and he slowly sinks down onto the new bed. He's not tired at all.

"Listen… I don't want to take your bed from you. Come on, let's just switch." Jim shakily rises to the point of all his weight resting on a quaking arm.

"We were both told that it would be unwise to move you. It is necessary that you are given ample time to recover."

"You know that's bullshit. Well, no, I mean, it's not, but I could totally recover from that mattress. I mean, he offered me a bed in his room, and I would have had to walk there. I'd really just have to stand up and then fall down, here."

"I believe it would have been necessary for me to carry you." Spock says.

There's a pause, and then Jim says, "Really?" a clear hint of amusement carrying through.

Spock feels his brows furrow, and he relaxes the expression instantly, vigilant even in the darkness. "Affirmative. Vulcans are stronger than humans. It would be a simple task."

Another silence, and then "You could carry me to the bed on the floor, then. I mean, if you really don't want me to just flop myself over there."

"I am currently residing in this bed. I would prefer if you did not 'flop yourself over.'"

"I'd wait for you to move. Probably."

Spock shut his eyes, and then opened them again. There was something distinctly pleasing about the fact that he could see in this darkness and The Boy – _Jim_ – could not. It seemed safe, somehow. As if it somehow kept them in different rooms, even in such close quarters. "I would be required to wash the bedding on my usual bed before sleeping on it. It is more logical that I sleep in this bed."

There was another silence. It wasn't until Jim spoke again with a changed tone that Spock realized it had been a different kind of quiet than the others. "Oh."

For half an hour, they both lay in silence. The air was charged and dark, and, as time wore slowly on, illogical thoughts began to crowd at the surface of Spock's mind. Like perhaps the air he was breathing had been breathed before, and this was bad, somehow. Like maybe if they lay still for long enough in the same place, all the automatic actions of their bodies would begin to align themselves. Their hearts might start beating the same way. Almost out of his control Spock's breathing seems to align itself with Jim's, and when, in a kind of odd stupidity, when he tried to stop it, it seemed difficult to breathe.

Without explanation he rises, grasping his key-card off the small table by the door, and he walks quickly from the room. Jim doesn't say anything.

Outside, the air is still. There isn't any wind, and the sky is clearer than he's seen it recently – three, perhaps four stars visible through the smog.

Trees lay strewn over the walkways, their bark hanging off the swollen, water-logged bodies like old leather, sticks lining the walkway like bones. Ancient relics of a long-past massacre. He steps over them easily, walking on, looking at the buildings standing silent at the edges. A few lights are on, windows gaping yellow at him, a few lives going on awake and perhaps equally charged inside.

His feet carry him down the street, where cleanup had already began, trash cans dotting the sidewalk and overflowing with the rubbish that had been brought on in waves from the storm. Briefly, for some reason, his thoughts drift to that lone motorcyclist in the storm. He wonders if the man or woman is alive.

Spock glances up at Jordan West. One of the less luxurious upperclassman dorms, suite-style, made up mainly of triples and doubles._ "Come visit me any time, I'm suite 201, room B." Uhura had said. "If Gaila answers, yell for me and leave if I'm not there. Trust me. You don't want to be left alone in a room with Gaila for more than a few minutes. Or do you… do you?"_she'd smirked at him. He'd stared blankly at her, wondering if the question was rhetorical. _"I don't think you do."_ She'd said, and laughed.

Suite 201, room B. Spock recalled the blueprints he had looked over for all the dorms and school buildings before arriving here. After a few quick moments of thought, he calculated that one of the lighted windows was hers.

_Come visit, any time you want._

Had it just been politeness? Was it not inappropriate to visit someone without being specifically invited? Had he been specifically invited? What would they do if he did visit? She would feel too guilty to tell him if he was not wanted. Most likely, he would stand awkwardly, an interruption to her fun and life, as she attempted in vain to make them both comfortable. Perhaps her other suite mates would be there, glancing amusedly back at them every now and then. They would probably make fun of her for the uncomfortable experience afterwards, and she would laugh along, saying something that was not blatantly mean, but which clearly carried to them her view of him as cold and generally uncomfortable.

It was just politeness.

He wondered how people reached the point where it was appropriate to visit someone at their dorm. It seemed to happen all the time, but he didn't understand it.

So he went to the park. He sat at a familiar chess table, and he stared at the swollen, dark sky and the small glinting glimmers of stars thick with other worlds, millions of light-years away. Their light was like old photographs of dead relatives lining the walls. He tried to think of that. Of everything, instead of anything that was him, only him, here in a park at night trying to want the silence. 

* * *

The next morning had arrived slowly.

Spock had awoken precisely thirteen minutes before his alarm was set to go off, which was a full three minutes before he usually woke up. So he had spent those three minutes lying absolutely still, hyper-aware of the deep, slightly wheezy breaths of the form on his bed. He watched the sheets over the chest rise and fall, so very slowly, and the curl of fingers over the blanket. He also managed to shut the alarm off within the first millisecond of it emitting sound.

Regardless, Jim mumbled something and turned to his side. Spock wondered how and where he slept if he was so easily woken.

The day passed in an oddly companionable silence. Jim slept far into midday, and, when he was fully and determinedly awake, Spock walked directly across the hall to Dr. McCoy's dorm to inform him of this fact. A quick check-up was performed, and it was only now, after an hour of Spock doing homework and Jim reading one of his books (without asking, which really should have bothered him somehow, but didn't) that Spock had finally opened his mouth. He had spent the past fourteen point seven minutes considering how best to begin a conversation of sorts, and had decided that asking a direct question would be the best way to gather information. Which was what he wanted.

What he really very strongly desired in a scientific fashion.

"Why do you not wish to go to a hospital? I am not saying that it is required or that I wish it." Spock added quickly, seeing the sharpness immediately strike into the previously relaxed gaze. "I am simply… curious."

Jim shrugged. After a moment it seemed as if he did not intend to answer the question, but then he said, hesitatingly, "I've spent enough time in hospitals. In them, out of them, visiting people in them. I just… would rather not. You get sick of hospitals if you spend too much time in them. _Really_ easily. They're not really set up for frequent visits. They're supposed to be just a stop, a short pause a few times in your life and you're done. I just don't want to be any more acquainted with them than I am."

"I see." Spock said. He thought back to being young and a miracle. To being something no one expected possible. Something everyone expected to be mutant and unhealthy and strange, two things that shouldn't come together clashing in his body. To be poked and prodded and X-rayed in the name of science, and for his own protection. So they could make sure he didn't begin spewing battery acid, or his body didn't begin rejecting the human organs it possessed. "I understand the sentiment, and how an emotional creature such as yourself would develop such a dislike of hospitals. I myself spent a great deal of time in labs and health centers as a young child, and I admit that it did indeed become… monotonous."

Jim stared at him oddly. "Were you sick a lot as a kid?" he asked, staring directly into Spock's eyes. The actual curiosity was evident in the tilt of his face, and Spock found it strange, so he looked away.

"No," he said. He realized he couldn't simply leave it at that, so he continued. "They believed there was a high probability that my body would not properly function, however. I was expected to have a very short life-span."

"Why?" Jim asked, still looking at him.

"I – " Spock started. He stared at his hands folded on his lap for a moment. "I am a hybrid. A human and Vulcan hybrid. There were no previous studies on how a hybrid between the two species would function, though it was well-known that Orion and Human hybrids tend to have a plethora of genetically based ailments and disabilities, as well as notably shorter life-spans than both Orions and humans. It was expected that a human-Vulcan hybrid would suffer these as well."

"But you didn't."

In a sudden flash, he is seven again, standing naked before one pediatrician and three astrobiologists. Two nurses are holding his arms, and they are expressionlessly examining him, commenting on how he will most likely perish in approximately fourteen years. He looks at Jim, and has the most bizarre sense that this memory is seen by him as well.

"No. I am, of course, less strong than a full-blooded Vulcan. I have been told that it is highly improbable that I will ever have acceptable control over my emotions, yet I believe that this is a mistake on the part of the many Vulcan psychiatrists who analyzed me."

Jim laughed. "You show 'em." He said.

Spock blinked at them. "Show who what?" He asked.

"Um. You know, that you're so much better than they are."

"I am hardly claiming superiority. I only intend to 'show' that my human DNA is not a disability."

"Yeah, that's what I meant! It's a blessing. You're _lucky_ to be part human. Makes you original and pretty and all that. Haven't you ever noticed that mix-raced girls and guys are always scarily attractive? It makes sense, what with the best of both worlds coming together. And hey! You've got that_ literally!_ Best of both worlds, eh?"

Spock stared at him, taken aback. "I believe I am late for class." He said, quickly rising. His face felt oddly hot, and his ears were tingling a bit, but he didn't know why. "I will ask you to refrain from propositioning me in that manner in the future." He meant it to sound calm and composed, but it came out a little shaky. He meant it to simply clear things up. He didn't like being called pretty. He didn't like someone being in his room telling him he was better than anybody. It was distinctly uncomfortable.

It made perfect sense to him. This is why he found Jim's next reaction incredibly illogical.

"Propo – what the _fuck_ are you talking about? And oh, 'in that way,' huh? What way do you want me to proposition you then, huh?" He sat up, and Spock could see his limbs quivering like those old, sick cats in the window at the shelter as his arms locked, supporting the rest of his body, his bony face blooming angry red patches of blush. His eyes were like sharp bits of metal, and they pinned Spock again. "If you think this is what this all is, you can get that out of your head _right the fuck now_. I'm not trading anything for my life. I'll die in the street before I give myself up just to be saved, just to become someone's fucking pet, and I mean that literally, you know, just to – "

"What," Spock said, swallowing the shaky words he didn't understand yet, "I am not – this is not any kind of illegal – "

Jim laughed, and it was cold. That boy – that calm, kind boy from before was gone, and this livid monster had replaced him. "I know. God, I know, you don't have the courage to try to pull that kind of shit. But do me a favor, would you? Don't consider me the poor pathetic brat from the street who just wants to marry the prince and live happily ever after, ok? I'm not_propositioning_ you. I'm just being _friendly_."

Spock watched, still pinned to the spot by those eyes, as that sudden flash of anger got weaker and weaker in the other boy's form. It sunk out of his limbs and they went boneless in the lack of it, and he crumbled back into the pillow.

For a moment, Jim lay there, staring at the ceiling. His eyes slowly calmed from angry metallic to that gentle, unmarred blue. His face turned white. Very white.

Jim's lids slid shut over his eyes – translucent, vein-riddled shades across bright windows. The room was left darker. "Aren't you going to be late for your class?" He asked quietly.

Spock left without another word.

It wasn't until he got to the building and saw the tree lying across the entrance that her remembered that sociology was canceled today.

* * *

AN: Sorry for the wait. I've been feeling a little off lately. Going to have my first pilot lesson in two days, though, so that should cheer me up. Review, please! 3


	7. Friend

******Title:** Let It All Go  
**Author:** anonpersona  
**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash  
**Accumulated Word Count:** 24,197  
**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship  
**Tropes: **academy, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess  
**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP  
**Additional Pairings: **Background Sulu/Chekov, vague Spock/Uhura fail  
**Summary:** Prompted on kink meme (.com/st_xi_kink_l)_ I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food. _Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats.  
_  
Spock is a senior at the United Federation of Planets School on Earth. And despite being lightyears away from home, he is attemtpting to follow Vulcan doctorine. To remain distant and objective in every situation. To treat his own life and the world around him as a study, and to not interfere with the lives of others._

_**This becomes more difficult after he meets a captivating homeless boy named Jim.**_

* * *

"What is the number one cause of homelessness?"

Spock's head snapped up as if slapped. Pike, being one of the many who noticed this sudden action, raised an eyebrow. "Spock?" he asked.

"The lack of a job." Spock said, tightly. He glanced up at his fellow classmates. Everyone was looking at him _oddly._

Pike laughed at him, and Spock stared at the table again. "Ok. That's true. Not having a job probably does make a lot of people homeless. Now – why do you think so many jobs are lost?"

Spock didn't answer. He saw Uhura's hand timidly go up, and he felt her eyes on him like a weight. "Perhaps… downsizing?"

"Nope. Normally, people get fired for being either jerks or lazy." Pike said flatly.

There was a silence. Scotty chuckled awkwardly, lifting a hand to his mussed brown hair and glancing around, as if waiting to see if someone would explain the joke. Pike sat in silence, looking calmly at all of them.

"So… you're saying that jobless people just… got what they deserved?" Uhura asked quietly.

"Well, that depends. I mean, why are they jerks or lazy? Were they raised that way? Were they relentlessly beaten and kept in a cage for their entire childhood? Did they _have _a childhood? I suppose it all depends on whether or not explanation equals excuse. Because I sure as hell think it doesn't."

Gaila and Uhura's hands shot up simultaneously, and beside him, Gaila let out a squeaking "Christopher!"

"_Professor,_" Pike corrected in a routine, bored fashion. "And what? Do you two think explanation equals excuse?"

"If the society allows someone to fall through the cracks like that, don't you think it's our job to help out afterwards?" Uhura asked. Her voice was sharp, and when Pike responded, his was sharper.

"So if a child is raped, and he grows up and rapes other children, does that mean we should all take care of him and forgive him because _society_raped him?"

The entire table winced, and Uhura, seemingly in a faltering attempt to save face, retorted with "That's an entirely different issue! That's the fault of an individual."

"And abuse and neglect isn't? Why is rape so different?"

Silence seemed to be a permeable thing in the room, and if Spock concentrated for more than a second, he could hear all the heartbeats and breathing and even the rush of blood in each of those around him. It was unnerving. So he stopped concentrating.

"It is about invasion. It happens to a single person, as opposed to happening around a person. Neglect happens around someone. It seems more like an event that the neglector sort of starts. It's not… private. Rape is private, even if people try to make it seem all like something you can easily talk about these days. On Orion it was an open topic of conversation. On Terran societies, it's two individuals, and everyone else is just another invader." Every head turned to Gaila, and her strong little voice. She met their eyes, and it was odd how they all fell away, gazes clattering to the table in the way that Spock's normally did. He didn't look down, though. Instead, he met her eyes when she looked at him, and she blinked, an odd, modest kind of surprise evident on her open face.

"I guess so." Pike said. His chin was balanced on his hand, elbow on the table, and his brows were furrowed. "Which," he continued, "brings us to our next faaaascinating topic of conversation."

"Rape?" Chekov said, sounding a little petrified.

"Nope." Pike said.

"Homelessness." Spock guessed, and everyone at the table stared at him with wide eyes. He looked down, not entirely sure what was going on.

"Nooooo." Pike said, seemingly unaware.

"Perception." Sulu said with certainty, and Pike slapped a fist down on the table before lifting it, pointing a single finger in the direction of Sulu.

"Ditto." He said. Which Spock assumed was some foreign dialect form of the word 'affirmative.' "Perception. Not just our perception. All of our perception. How it's different. How it's connected. Why, for instance, did we all – well, most of us, anyway – try to save a hypothetical homeless man from blame? Why did we try to explain the circumstances? Why is it always the big ones – drugs and death and rape – instead of just 'falling on hard times.' Or laziness! What if a man was simply lazy? Did he get what he deserves? Does anyone 'get what they deserve,' and how do we decide that that's it? Why does everyone see everything in terms of crime and justice, and why is it that, throughout societies, we view these things in the same way? Sure, some societies are more open to the conversation topic, but the perception of crime and punishment is the same, and in existence everywhere – yes, everywhere, even within species that do not have the ability to communicate and speak and record the history of such crimes and punishments."

Each question and comment made seemed to tighten the potential words of Spock's classmates like a cord, and that cord snapped long before Pike had finished speaking.

When he'd finished, he was met with the blank stares of his students. The questions seemed like physical weights in the room, pressing down over them, covering them all. Spock catalogued each, had them shining in his head, and he started with the first. His voice was steady.

"Differences are found in every culture, and vary according to the subject. With the topic of rape, Vulcan is similar to Earth in the way that it is not socially discussed, even within a psychological context. The only time it is discussed is for purely biomedical, criminal, and educational purposes. The most recent studies on Vulcan conclude that rape no longer occurs since the teachings of Surak have become widespread.

"And you believe that?" Gaila shrieked.

Spock was about to comment when Uhura suddenly spoke up, harshly. "He didn't say that he believes it!"

There was a short silence, and then Spock continued. "The reason there is effort put into saving a homeless man from blame seems to be simple societal guilt. Human morality clearly states that each individual must devote themselves to benefiting their fellows. This, too, is where perception differs. On Vulcan homelessness is quite logically seen as the fault of the individual. On Earth it is, as was argued, the fault of 'society' for 'allowing' this to happen. By this logic, it is thereby the fault of those who possess the resources to potentially change something, but do not. By my estimate, everyone present falls into this category."

There was instant uproar, and Spock felt a cold shock run through him. Just a moment ago they had all been looking at him with something very nearly close to rapture. Now there was nothing but angry faces.

"For fuck's sake, everyone _calm down_." Pike didn't even have to raise his voice. The simple cuss was enough. He glared at all of them. "How many of you have opened up your couches to the homeless bums on the street?" he asked.

Spock didn't raise his hand. He didn't own a couch.

"How many of you have three meals a day? Two meals? How many of you have expensive PADDS? How many of you are paying to go here? Do you live on campus?"

There was an extended silence. For some reason, many people's gazes kept flickering towards Spock.

"Do you kids have any idea how many gorram credits it costs to go to this godforsaken high school?"

"I'm here on scholarship." Gaila said testily, as if personally accused.

"Whoop-de-doo. Did you get your outfits on scholarship? Is the school paying for those lacy pink tank tops you're always wearing?"

Gaila didn't flush, but beside her, Uhura went deep, dark and smooth like wine, her lashes brushing her cheeks. "No." Gaila responded, staring Pike right in the eye. "I bought those. With my own money."

"You worked for it?"

"Yeah. I was a waitress. I had a job. My parents haven't paid a cent for me since I was eleven."

"Oh, so now you're superior, because you've had a job. A moment ago it was 'let's save the homeless' but now that you're being accused of not doing enough, that's it, huh?"

"Sir," Uhura said, and her voice was pure ice slipping from her tongue. "Do you really mean to accuse us, teenagers just beginning to plan for our lives, of not giving up everything to 'save the homeless?' Are we supposed to feel _guilty?_"

"No." Pike said. And he let out a breath. "No, you're not supposed to feel guilty. Because, for starters, this isn't exactly _Muffy's Academy for Stinking Rich Youngsters_. It's just a _Starfleet_academy."

Scotty let out a quiet, awkward laugh that fell flat on the room.

"But you're supposed to _know_. You're supposed to know _what_ you're doing in your life and _why_ you're doing it. Because again, this is a Starfleet academy. And on perception - you're supposed to_ listen_ if someone's culture dictates that words be spoken bluntly. Because let me tell ya, that is a gift." Pike turned to Spock. His face was a collection of faint spider-webbed scars and a few early smile lines around his eyes and mouth. He wasn't old yet, but in that moment, Spock could see all the sure certainty of impending age lined up behind that face, the eyes solemn and bright. "A _gift._" he repeated.

* * *

The dorm room is empty.

Spock hears his bag thump to the ground like a single broken heartbeat. He leaps forward without thinking, pulling back the blankets as if he could have missed Jim beneath them, somehow. His walk to the bathroom is short and fast and not nearly as calm as he'd like it to be, and when he gets there, he pauses.

He hears someone urinating in one of the stalls.

This is an impasse.

Social customs would dictate that it is inappropriate to discuss anything while in the bathroom. He can tell by the sound of the urine and the pale heels he can barely see under the stall that this is a caucasian male in the coed bathroom, though he cannot tell whether or not this male is Jim.

Which it is, of course. Of course. Jim wouldn't just leave. And if he did, why should Spock be concerned? Jim claimed in the beginning that he would only stay until he had sufficiently regained his strength. His absence could very well mean that he had, and was now able to take care of himself enough to go back to his old life.

Which is not exactly the best life. But Jim would desire it more, probably, than living in Spock's dorm room.

It was perfectly understandable.

Not that any of these things mattered, of course, since this was, most likely, Jim. He was just in the bathroom. And social decorum probably also said something about waiting outside someone's stall when there were plenty of other ones, and when the person waiting did not have to urinate or defecate.

Spock was just in the midst of working out what, exactly, he should now do when the stall door opened and nearly whacked him in the face. His superior agility easily got him out of the way in time.

McCoy stared down at him, eyebrows raised. Spock blinked once.

McCoy let out a gruff sigh, stepping around Spock to the sink and washing his hands. "May I help you, Spock?"

"I was under the impression that you were… Jim seems to have left."

"Oh. No, he's in my room."

"Ah." Spock said, uncomfortable with the fact that the barest edge of a_ tone_came into his voice. "I believe we have discussed how it is more logical for him to stay in my dorm, so that-"

"Relax, Princess. I'm not stealing him from you. I found him in the hall when he was trying to come over to my dorm." McCoy shook his hands as opposed to using a paper towel, and then opened the door with his sleeve before striding out, failing to do the polite thing and hold it for the person after him. "He was just bored, is all. You're welcome to come on in."

McCoy fumbled for his identification card at his door while Spock seriously debated the pros and cons of informing McCoy that he was not a princess, though it was not a mistake to assume he was of a somewhat royal lineage.

The door opened. The first thing that Spock heard was the musical, tittering laugh of Uhura.

Spock stopped. Something cold seemed to slip through him, chilling him, his throat and stomach stretching in different directions and his eyes wide.

Jim was lying prone on an overstuffed sofa, limbs disappearing into the cushions and clothes seeming to lie over him. It seemed every other time he looked at Jim he was struck down by how incredibly skinny the other boy was, but now his yellow teeth and chapped lips were stretched into a bright smile. A protein shake was clutched in his hand, a pink straw peeking out of the mouth of the bottle, and Uhura leant against the sofa beside him. They both laughed at something on the TV before them.

"How… you cannot…" Spock spoke without thinking. Both of them turned to him, and Uhura rolled her eyes.

"Oh come on, Spock. Scotty told me about it. Scotty? The kid who lives next to you? I mean, the walls here are paper-thin. Your boy here is the worst kept secret in the building."

"Hey, where'd Scotty go? Hasn't he been in the bathroom for, like, fifteen minutes? What's he _doing?_"

Uhura snorted, and McCoy said, "He wasn't there."

"I think he has a club meeting." Uhura said, smiling.

"What, he didn't say goodbye?"

"He doesn't. I don't know. He's not the most socially aware person ever, you know? Really nice and sweet and everything, though."

McCoy fell with an odd amount of elegance into an armchair to the right of them, reaching off to the side and grabbing an already open bottle of something off a small table between the couch and the chair and taking a long swig before replacing it. Jim reached for it next, smirking, and McCoy grabbed it back. "Nope. This ain't gonna help you get your strength back."

"I've heard others say it works wonders. Maybe we should just try it out."

"Not on your life."

"What? Don't you like my protein shake?" Uhura said, feigning a pout.

"Of course I do! I'm just adding some… potency. If he'll just give me the damn bottle…"

"Nope. This is for the big boys. And the ladies, of course, if they want it." McCoy offered the bottle to Uhura, who scoffed.

"That poison isn't passing through my lips."

"Oh god, you're one of _those_people." Jim said, chortling. Something happened on the screen, and they all stopped and laughed. Spock turned and watched silently.

It appeared to be a movie about a man screaming at the sky. A woman with a British accent narrated. He didn't understand it.

Jim was laughing harder than he'd ever seen him. Not that he'd seen Jim laugh particularly often.

Spock walked quickly to the door. Just when he felt the cold solidity of the knob beneath his fingers, he heard Uhura's voice. "Spock, what's up?"

At the same time, Jim: "Come'on, sit down."

"Hey, this is my apartment. Dorm. Dorm that's kind of apartment-ish and nicer than yours…" They laughed again, and Spock watched the curved, distorted image of himself reflected in the metal door knob. "It's my job to invite people to stay. Spock, stay and watch."

Their voices are clear and friendly behind him, and his image is a distorted collection of gangly limbs in the knob. "I have work I must complete," he said. He didn't need to consider his options for more than a moment. He didn't understand Earth movies 91.3% of the time, anyway.

"Oh. Well… you could bring it in-"

Spock is through the door before Jim starts speaking, and it's closed before he finishes. For a moment, he simply stands in the hall. It's five forty one, and almost every student in his hall is at the dining hall for dinner.

Spock thought of the plomeek soup he got to go. He wished for a moment he had not finished it on his way back to his room. He truly does have work to do, but he wants suddenly, something to eat or drink.

He had expected to sit with Jim, and have idle, non-hurried conversation while he worked and Jim read. It was a pattern they had fallen into. And despite the fact that they seemed, to him, no closer to really knowing each other than they had at the beginning of this arrangement, there was something about the presence of another person near him he found satisfactory.

He walked into his room and closed the door, and not a second later he heard McCoy's door burst open. The volume was turned up on McCoy's television, and he heard the character in the movie talking to someone and the jumble of unsteady limbs and Uhura's steady footsteps and laugh. He opened the door again, and saw Jim leaning on her, face white, other hand gripping a cane McCoy had given him with the intent of helping him get to the bathroom down the hall on his own.

"You need a shower, you know that?" Uhura muttered.

"I took one when I first got here." Jim said, grinning.

"It is considered healthy for humans to cleanse themselves every day." Spock said. "Do you require assistance?" His heart was beating fast.

"No, she's got this." Jim said as they passed through the doors. Uhura dropped him when they approached the bed, and Jim swung forwards, catching the edge and pulling himself onto it, breathing heavily.

"See ya," Uhura said, smiling at Spock as she leapt over his mattress and away, closing the door behind her.

Jim sat, staring at him, not at all unfriendly, but with an odd edge of strain. Spock stood and looked back. When they first spoke, it was a jumble of words spoken at the same time.

"I am in possession of canned, soy-based protein beverages if you require them."

"So about the movie-watching thing…"

Jim giggled awkwardly, scratching his head. Spock thought back, with a sudden pang, to the ease with which he had spoken and laughed in the other room, with McCoy and Uhura present.

Why had he chosen to come over here?

"Um. Yeah, I'd love one. I guess." Spock walked over to his closet, and Jim continued speaking. "That movie watching thing? With Uhura and Scotty and McCoy, I mean. We're going to make that into a regular event. Weekly, I mean. Every Friday night."

"Interesting." Spock said. He poured the drink into a glass. It was grey and vaguely lumpy, and not at all the interesting yellow-ish color of the one Uhura had made.

"I mean, so long as I'm here." Jim continued quickly. "I mean, I'm only here for a little while longer, of course. Only until I'm strong and can stand on my own two feet. Literally speaking, of course. You don't have to worry. I won't be up in your hair for long."

Spock blinked, and handed Jim the shake, which Jim immediately took a great gulp of. "Is there a way to stand on one's own feet that is not literal?"

"Well, yeah. Metaphorically."

"Ah. I have never understood the purpose of metaphorical actions."

Jim grinned, and took another swig of the shake. "Yeah, well. The writers all love them. But what I mean is… I mean, I just want us all to understand that I won't stay if you don't want it. Or if you're not willing to put up with – no, you know what, it's only if you don't want me to. I'll skedaddle otherwise. Seriously. Vacate the premises. I'd get out of your life if you were ever… well, sick of me."

Spock stared at Jim. "You are still in need of a place to recover. I would not banish you from the building. Regardless, I believe the future doctor, Cadet McCoy, would immediately allow you back into his apartment and allow you to sleep on his couch."

"Yes," Jim said, "I mean, I guess he would. But… what I'm saying is, if you didn't want me here, I'd go. I'd find somewhere else. Fuck, Spock, I'd leave the damn city if you wanted me to. I'm… not here to interrupt your life." At this point he stared intently at Spock, willing him to understand something, "I'm not here to judge you or bother you or anything. It's not my place, I know that."

Spock resisted the urge to say quite loudly _"You have interrupted my life," _only he felt no anger in the words that seemed to press against his throat, making his tongue tingle.

"I am aware," he said, even though he wasn't.

Jim smiled at him, and it was a blinding thing, live like a wire, and full of life. "So… it's gonna be a regular thing, with me and Scotty and Uhura and McCoy?"

"You have stated as such, and I did not doubt the validity of the claim. I am hopeful that there will be no cognitively unstable substances at this common event."

"Um..." Jim said, eyebrows shooting up. "No, _Mom._Besides, it's not like we were all getting trashed."

Spock stared at him, eyes wide, and said very seriously "I am not your mother. It is concerning that you view me as such, considering both our lack of blood relation and my own manhood."

Jim's jaw dropped. there was silence, and then he said "Are you screwing with me?"

Spock raised an eyebrow, and was rewarded when Jim let out a bark of surprised laughter, louder and more gleeful than the laughter inspired by the movie playing in McCoy's apartment. "Um, yeah, you _are_screwing with me. But... what I said, I mean, the movie thing. Every Friday I'll be going to that with them. At least for a while. Until I get my strength back, and can handle my own out there in the real world."

"Undoubtedly."

"So… it's right across the hall, this movie-watching thing. And it's on Friday nights, so you wouldn't be busy with homework."

"On the contrary, I do the majority of my weekend homework on Friday nights."

"Oh." Jim said. "Ah." There was a pause, and then he said, almost sadly, "You're really not lying about that, are you?"

Spock blinked, confused. "Of course not. It would be illogical to lie. It is logical to complete ones assignments as soon as possible, so that there remains no possibility that they will be incomplete at the time when one is required to hand them in."

Jim stared at him. "It's weird. I've only known you for a few days – well, technically a few _months,_but we've only been talking for like, a week, but already I have this really strong urge to hug you sometimes." There was a silence, and then Jim blushed and said very quickly, "You know, one of those manly shoulder pat hugs. Not some kind of frottage deal, ok? Got that?"

Spock's eyebrow seemed to shoot up of its own accord. "_Frottage?"_he questioned.

Jim let out a snort, and then quickly snapped a hand over his mouth, as if he believed this would be sufficient covering to hide his snickers and smile. Which it wasn't. All in all, it was very illogical, and slightly rude. Though Spock found he was not particularly annoyed at the obvious mirth in Jim's eyes and the wide grin beneath his hand.

"Ok." Jim said, calming down. "Um. Spock? Do you want to join us for this movie-watching thing? Please? It's been years since I watched movies, hell, it's been a while since I was able to just hang out with people, you know? People who didn't want anything from me. So this is kind of a novelty to me, and I'm enjoying it, and I enjoy your company, so both of them combined would be – "

"You enjoy my company?" Spock interrupted, surprised.

Jim blinked at him, and then his eyes softened in a way that made Spock's face feel hot again, his ears tingling. He felt very slightly unable to hold Jim's gaze, but even more unable to simply look away. "Yeah. I, um, really enjoy your company. We're kind of… friends, you know."

"We are more than mere acquaintances?" Spock asked, even more surprised. This had never really happened to him before.

"Yes." Jim said, something steadfastly determined creeping into his previously cautious voice. "_Yes,_ Spock. We're friends. You're definitely_ my _friend, at least."

Spock nodded, considering this. "We have not known each other for a very long amount of time, yet there are several individuals I have been acquainted with for quite some time, yet we have not yet reached the status of 'friends.' Why is it that you, who I have known for less time, have reached that status?"

Jim's eyes held a kind of gentle, passionate intensity that seemed almost inappropriate. Spock's heart was beating inordinately fast in his side, and he wondered if he was coming down with something. If he was sick, just like the Vulcan doctors had always said he would be, and was going to have to be sent away back to Vulcan so they could gloat, and Jim would be found out and thrown out into the… this was an intensely illogical train of thought.

"Some people just click like that. Some people are just better for each other than most, you know? Like Batman and Robin. Aristotle and Averroes. Harry and Ron. We're up there, baby! Now _please_– agree to go to this movie thing. I don't think I can take if it you end up back in here doing homework."

Spock only knew who one of the pairs of friends who apparently 'clicked' were.

"Alright." He said. And then nodded, shortly. "I believe I will now inform my mother that I have 'made a friend.' She has been very illogically concerned about this rather trivial facet of my life."

Jim blushed a flash of deep scarlet. "Oh, Jesus. Um. Yeah. Ok. Should I… I don't know, talk to her, or something?"

"I believe that would be unwise." Spock said.

"Ah." Jim said. Spock rose, and Jim spoke quickly, as if worried about getting the words out. "Um, you know I _want _to stay here, right? Here with you? Like, I'll leave when I'm well just because I'm never going to be an inconvenience if I can help it, but I _want_to stay here."

"Obviously." Spock said as he walked out. Before he shut the door he glanced back, one eyebrow raised, and said "I have no doubt you would find some way to leave if you did not desire it."

The door shut behind him. At his last look, Jim was rubbing the side of his head, face bright pink, but a kind of gentle, truly happy smile owning the indented corners of his mouth.

**AN: There is no actual excuse for why this took forever. Plenty of reasons, but, in my opinion, reason does not equal excuse. There is not enough space here to explain how weird and crazy my life has been, and since this story is not about me I will not even attempt it. Maybe someday I will write a story about me, though, and a few of you might read it, and then you'll be like "Oh. Huh." It will be a weird story. My life is strange. **

**Anyway - I love you all, I cannot apologize enough. Trust that I still love writing this. You should see my face when I'm typing this shit up - my sister claims I make the same expressions I imagine the character does, and that I make a happy weird motion with my mouth like a baby learning to eat solid food. Anyway. I hope you'll all review, and, especially, forgive me. Love you guys. **


	8. Love

**Title:** Let It All Go  
**Author:** anonpersona  
**Universe/Series:** Reboot, AU  
**Rating:** PG13  
**Relationship Status:** slowbuilding leading to slash  
**Accumulated Word Count:** 30,556  
**Genre:** Drama, H/C, Romance, Friendship  
**Tropes: **academy, character study, friendship, teen, troubled_past, chess  
**Warnings:** None as of yet, besides WIP  
**Additional Pairings:** Background Sulu/Chekov, vague Spock/Uhura fail, Sarek/Amanda, and as of this chapter, Spock/T'Pring  
**Summary: **Prompted on kink meme _"I'd love to see an AU where Kirk is homeless, and Spock takes him in. it can be set in San Fran or wherever anon wants, i just need a Kirk who's wet and cold getting taken in for the night and being given warm, dry clothes and some food."_Then more plot happens. Title from the song 'Cotton' by The Mountain Goats. Any goodness contained thanks to my glorious beta, notboldly from livejournal.

_Spock is a senior at the United Federation of Planets School on Earth. And despite being lightyears away from home, he is attemtpting to follow Vulcan doctorine. To remain distant and objective in every situation. To treat his own life and the world around him as a study, and to not interfere with the lives of others._

This becomes more difficult after he meets a captivating homeless boy named Jim.

* * *

"Hey! Kid! Hey!"

Spock groggily pulled himself from bed and opened the door. "How may I assist you this morning?" he asked, voice cool. It was Sunday. Sunday was the day he made up for occasionally not sleeping at all during the week. Jim knew that, and he'd only been here about a little over two weeks. Jim was sitting quietly, reading a book by the light of the window.

"Not _you_. Jim! You looking for a job?"

Jim's jaw dropped. "Yes. Always." He said immediately.

"You good with kids?"

"I'll take it." Jim said almost at the same time, and then frowned suspiciously. "_Some_ kids." And then, the confident, schmoozing grin snapped back into place and he said "_Most_kids."

"Perfect. And you know sign, right? Or do you just know the sign from Children of a Lesser God? I saw you translating on Friday."

"Yeah, I know it." Jim said cockily, nodding vigorously before his face turned sheepish and, with seeming reluctacereluctance, added, "I… I know some. Some sign."

McCoy, who had by this point invited himself inside, said "You only know how to cuss, don't you?"

"Hey! I can say 'I love you' and 'Squirrel sex!' And 'man-woman-gay-shark!'"

McCoy let out a huff, his eyes wide with an expression that said he was perhaps regretting this just a little. "Fine. Good enough, I guess. Just… learn a bit more before Thursday, or else you won't be able to, you know, talk to her. Though that might be for the better. At the very least learn 'Potty' or something, and you can watch Joanna."

"I'm a babysitter?"

"To a god damn awesome kid, you little shit, so you better appreciate it. Meet me at three on the dot Thursday noon, and…"

"I'm a babysitter! No, I'm so cool with this, kids love me, this'll be great!" he said gleefully. "I will be a god damn fucking awesome babysitter."

"Don't cuss in front of her. And learn sign."

"Right."

* * *

Spock watched intently as Jim scrolled down the padd at a leisurely pace, chewing his food at the same time and seeming not at all in a rush to assist Spock in studying for a test he had in less than 24 hours.

"So what happened after that?"

"It was revealed that the fossils were, in fact, a hoax. SETI was largely discredited, and government funding decreased steadily until the organization became privately owned in – "

"I said no dates. You use years as anchors or some shit, I swear. Little chapters in your head labeled things like '1927, sub category, phoenix rover.' Tell me the _story!_That'll prove you really know it."

"That year has no relation to the Phoenix Rover. I may also add that my memory retains verbal information with the same ease that it retains numerical information. It is a well-known fact that the Vulcan race claims an eidetic memory, and this claim is _generally_true."

"You know, Spock, you seem like a perfect little Vulcan lad, but you're kind of a smart-mouthed rebel. Anyone can tell if they listen to your words. 'Spect most people go numb and let them wash over their heads, though. Shame. Their loss."

Spock faltered, unsure of how to respond to this mish mash of compliment and insult. He instead chose to focus on the sure detail – the fact that it was none of Jim's business. "I do not see how your opinions on my loyalties have any relevance to my upcoming examination, your studies, or our current tangent of conversation." He said coolly. Jim responded with the same vaguely amused, slight smile as he did with most everything.

It was very slightly maddening. Or it would be, if Spock were an emotional creature. Since he was not, it was… curious. Distractingly curious.

"It has eveeeeerything to do with everything!" Jim sang. He opened his second cookie from its neat plastic wrapper, taking a large, unhurried bite. Crumbs fell onto the splayed padds covering the café table before them. The sight made something warm sink through Spock's chest, like a passing flame.

"This is awesome." Jim said, smiling.

"What is 'awesome?'" Spock asked.

"It's a synonym for fantabulous, used by those who are in possession of balls." Jim said, and then laughed at the look Spock shot him. "The cookie."

"I am pleased it is more than adequate." Spock said.

"No! I mean, it is, but I mean that it's awesome that I have it. That I got it in a nice plastic wrap, and soon as I get paid for my first day working, I'm going to _pay you back for it_. And everything. Spock, I'm going to give you money. For _services._Wow. Sorry about that, I didn't mean for that to have the implications it did."

"I do not understand that reference." Spock snapped, "And there is no need for you to give me anything. My family is exceedingly wealthy."

"Spock. Let me pay you back for the cookies."

"They cost little to nothing, and are paid for through my student account."

"Spock, if you don't let me buy these fucking cookies, I will cry. Well, maybe not that far. But I will explode."

Spock let out an exhale that was perhaps slightly louder than his ordinary exhales, and Jim laughed. "I suppose it is a relief to not have to struggle for food." Spock commented, and then looked up quickly as some part of his brain registered that this was, perhaps, an offensive thing to say. Jim didn't seem to realize it, though. Instead, he responded in a slow, philosophical tone.

"Getting food's actually the easy part. People throw stuff away all the time, and San Francisco's incinerator-free, according to some hippie act, so there's always plenty of cheeseburgers with one bite taken out of them or leftover French fries or apples that have tiny brown spots that are easily picked away."

"That is not logical." Spock said sharply.

"Yeah, I know, right? People throw food away if they breathe on it funny - "

"This is not what I was referring to," Spock snapped, "You are, even now, suffering from and extended period of starvation. Previous to… our meeting… you seemed to be suffering from starvation, as well."

The silence is suddenly permeable between them. Jim's gaze falls and seems to shatter to the table and their food between them in a sudden motion, like dropping marbles and watching them clatter away. Spock is hyperaware of the bones and sinewy muscle of Jim's neck, the memory of a body devouring itself to survive still there, despite the days of having Jim consume as much food as he can.

"There just wasn't anything good." Jim says, and then lets out a huff as he rubs a hand over his face, successfully mussing his hair and eyebrows. They both know it's a rather terrible lie.

Jim, seemingly for lack of something better to do, picks a cranberry out of Spock's scone without asking, and he pops it into his mouth, swallowing it dry.

Spock waits. And then, finally, Jim speaks, and his voice it is tired and worn thin. "I was just… tired. I was tired of it. After you – I mean, I guess I got used to seeing people regularly. I haven't had anyone to know for a while, now, and even before, they weren't really, like, good people. No. No, I shouldn't say that. They were good. Mostly good. Most of them were good. But it wasn't – we didn't do things for each other just because. Everything had an ulterior motive. And not having… I just got tired. I guess it can't be simpler or more complicated than that. I was tired."

"You were purposefully starving yourself because of exhaustion?" Spock said, his own voice too quiet.

"I was – well, I mean, no. It's a different kind of exhaustion. I just spent all this time not really knowing anybody, and I'd already kind of decided I was done with this shit, and then you were there, and I was like 'I was wrong I was wrong, ok, fantastic' and then you weren't and it was just back to before, and it's not like exhaustion… I just, I can't explain it. It's… being so tired you're sick. Haven't you ever been so exhausted you can't just, like, function the way you've been doing anymore?"

Spock watched Jim's fingers digging through his scone. He thought about how Jim's hands had been, shoveling food into his mouth that first day. And how they were now, flat, slightly stubby pads of callous and thin half-moon nails, meticulously picked clean during sonic showers when McCoy helped him into his own private bathroom every night.

"Yes." He says, shocking himself. He evidently shocks Jim as well, as the berry that was previously slipped beyond his lips is suddenly visible when his jaw drops. "I understand how it could be possible," Spock adds quickly, not liking that instant assumption that he had meant to imply he had 'felt' the same way. "That one could feel the physical indicators of sleep deprivation with emotional motivators. I have, in fact, seen it before."

Jim smiled at him and quirked a brow. He did it with much less grace than any Vulcan could, but there was something honest in the way one side of his forehead tugged at the other, the scraggly brown shrubs of his brows pulled after each other upwards. "You been studying us_ lowly_humans, have you?" he said.

"No." Spock said automatically, and then considered that answer. "The denial was in relation to your assumed status as 'lowly.' As for whether or not I have studied humans, the answer is 'yes.' It is, however, one of the few subjects I do not excel in. Finally, I wish to inform you that the exhausted individual your explanation reminded me of was a Vulcan."

Jim's eyes widened, and he leant forward on the table. "A Vulcan? Like, a real Vulcan?"

"Yes." Spock said, confused. There were very few fictional Vulcans, as fiction was superfluous and illogical. "A 'friend' of mine, if you will."

Jim's eyes narrowed. "Was it you?" he asked.

Spock stared. "No." he said. "A friend."

"I thought not. I just needed to make sure, though. But who was this 'friend?'"

Spock blinked. "Her name was T'Pring." He began, and then paused. "Her name_ is_T'Pring. I did not intend to discuss her in the past tense."

"S'alright. People do it all the time. So it was a girl-friend, eh?"

"I suppose that would be an adequate title, though on Vulcan the idea was more serious. I was betrothed to her at a young age."

* * *

When Spock was seven, he was bonded to T'Pring in a rushed ceremony. His parents had, as always, been in raucous debate with one another. This time about which culture marriage should take after. His father wanted the customary arranging and betrothal for reasons that would later become obvious, after an awkward discussion and pamphlet depicting several extremely uncomfortable pictures and phrases like "biological urges" in bold print, seemingly just to make it worse.

His mother had wanted him to 'marry for love.' But, as his father had pointed out: "You yourself have stated that you wish that the boy be raised as a Vulcan. If so, to marry based on an emotion, and a quite illogical and uncontrollable one at that, seems contrite."

His mother had laughed until she cried, or, perhaps, these two events had merely come one after another. At the time, Spock had been terrified, petting his mother's arm and leg and shoulder, leaning up to kiss her face where the tears made it shiny. And in the end, he had ended up on that alter with T'Pring, his mother crying again, his father standing stoically, and T'Pring's family looking almost perfect, if it weren't for the fact that they all seemed very vaguely disappointed.

T'Pring had been kind of untouchable, standing a whole head taller than him, makeup decorating her chubby child face.

Afterwards, they had both gone to a 'bond specialist,' who had explained to them that the bond would grow in their minds. That, especially at a younger age, they'd be able to sense each other completely. They'd been paired for compatibility of thought. Those exact words 'compatibility of thought,' had been used, and Spock had marveled at them. And here's the thing – he had felt T'Pring see his devotion to those details almost like his mind was a limb, a part of his body, and the feeling of someone looking at it was less like a glance and more like she had been running a single finger up his arm backwards, pressing all the fine hairs up so they stood on end.

They'd both gone home, both uncomfortable, trying not to look at the other. But the avoidance hadn't lasted. The bond specialist had been right.

It started with thoughts. Their own brains tugging them close to one another after class, during class. They didn't talk, but they stayed by each others' sides. T'Pring, one day, walked home with him, and neither questioned it. Sarek had merely glanced down and wordlessly contacted T'Pring's mother to inform her of her daughter's whereabouts, and before she left, T'Pring had caught his hand as if to tether herself.

T'Pring matured in his mind. She fermented herself there like wine. He felt her. And when he was 8, just one year later, one simple year, they stepped out into the sun and he thought "You are beautiful."

And she heard it.

He saw her eyes as they widened, catching him. He saw her hear, and saw something almost feverish in that. She stayed away from him for a week.

This. This moment is significant. Her in the sun, all the smooth skin oil sleeking darkness in hair, the sharpness of her bones beneath her soft fat and flesh and fine hairs on face. She was just a child, but she was his, somehow. He could feel it in a primal part of him that would, someday, become sexuality, but was now simple love for a part of his own body that inhabited the outside world. For the limbs that were just beginning to take on the awkward length and skinniness of a growing child. For long, dark hair and sharp brows and these eyes that seemed to contain a fiery sickness beneath the stony surface. If he focused, he could feel her heart inside him, thump thump thump, faster than his. It confused his muscles and mind as they both tried in desperation to align with it. Join it, somehow.

This is how he _felt._He felt something from Vulcan customs. And this was very, very significant.

Her first instinct had been some trembling mass of hidden emotion that surprised him less than he thought it should. They were all hard to identify, except one. Fear.

And then, because she was T'Pring, and different from anybody, ever, that fear turned rather quickly into wicked curiosity.

At the age of nine, she walked up to him after school. He had pushed away the usual bullies, head held high as always, face stoic. He was stoic, stoic, _stoic_, and she caught his arm and said "You 'love' me." He'd simply turned back to her coolly and refused to answer.

Their eyes had met in silence. She was still a head taller than him, and her hair, already coiled above her head as it would be when she was a full grown-woman, gave her extra height. She towered over Spock, a piece of shadow smelling of skin and sand against the sky. Spock didn't care, though. He wasn't there to be _tall_. He simply watched her, waiting to see what she did next.

She smiled.

T'Pring didn't smile as if by accident. It was on purpose. It was not a sweet thing of young teeth and chubby cheeks. It was not something that reached her eyes. Rather, she seemed to stretch her lips like an experiment, exposing the bones less as happiness or threat and more as if she desired him to check them.

But it was, clearly, supposed to be a smile. "Close your mouth." He heard himself say. The emotions – even such fake ones – were about as crass and blatant as nudity in public.

The smile only widened. And this time, this time, it reached her eyes. "Accompany me." She said.

So he did.

There were pieces of Vulcan untamed. Spock would run there with The Sehlat, sometimes, but he had never pressed into wilderness with another Vulcan at his side. T'Pring wished to be the first, though.

"I wish for us to be in love." She said, as they walked, a single bottle of water to share for a day-long trip. Most of it would, logically, go to Spock, since he was less tolerant of the sun and heat. For whatever reason, though, today, he wished for it to go to her. It didn't make sense.

"Emotional ties are considered inappropriate." Spock retorted.

They climbed down a small valley. At the bottom, there was a tube that had drained what used to be a lake, one of the many veins beneath the surface of Vulcan which sucked the water away into reservoirs. T'Pring skidded to a stop beside it. Her hair had come slightly undone, a tangle sticking to her neck in the heat and a curl hanging over her brows. She moved with a skip in her step that would never have been acceptable in true Vulcan company.

"I am aware. This is irrelevant to what I have said, however. I wish for love, and I intend to get it. This is why I requested you as my future bond-mate."

Spock stopped. He didn't know what to say.

"You requested… me?"

"It was also beneficial to my family, of course. My father was against it. I informed my mother it was what I desired, however, and she agreed."

T'Pring bared her teeth at him again. "She does not think like others. She hates my father, you know. She does not speak of it, the same way everyone does not speak of their own secrets. He does not feel at all, unless it is for himself. I used to formulate plans to kill him, when I was young. Now I have found a better revenge. One that benefits me. I wish to feel. I wish to fall in love. And you love me. I shall then love you, and we will be 'happy.'"

Spock remained silent. T'Pring spoke the words like they were nothing more than that. As if they couldn't clatter into reality and strip a person of their dignity and life. He didn't know what to think, beyond that perhaps she was right. A strange concept that seemed quite not his own, as if her carelessness had become tangible in his own thoughts and ideas.

"Kiss me."

Spock started. He blinked up at her face, which suddenly contorted, as faces do in the holovids his mother occasionally watched. Her lips were a fat bundle of awaiting brown, and her eyes shut tight closed. He'd felt unaware, up until this point, that she could move that face at all in any real and desperate show of emotion, yet now she did it with such fluid certainty he wondered if she practiced before a mirror.

"Complete this task." She muttered from her puckered mouth.

Spock reached a hand forward. He brushed his fingers very lightly over hers and shivered. T'Pring let out an angry, amused, emotional huff of air.

"Tongue, teeth, lips – use those. I wish to never be Vulcan. I want to be human, like you, and feel something other than hate and disgust and contempt – do you understand? Our classmates claim that your humanity is a disadvantage. I desire it."

Spock stared at the ground. Wet was still there around the tube, water refusing to fully disappear. He saw it sinking through his shoes, felt it on his toes, and realized he'd been standing still for a great long while. _Long enough to put down roots._He thought, because he always thought such stupid, stupid things.

Spock dropped the water bottle and turned around, starting back. He heard T'Pring before she reached him, felt her suddenly thud into his back and her teeth on his ear, and she bit down, hard. He gasped and pulled away, unhappy with an unfamiliar feeling, something deep in the pit of his stomach, something in his hands as if his blood was heating. He shoved at her, and she fell away gracefully, landing on her feet.

Her face was a wild mess of hair, eyes shining out at him like they were two sharp, heated interpretations of fever and disease. "I love you." She said, flatly, without tone or meaning.

* * *

"So… you were engaged." Jim said after a while.

Spock nodded, and then caught himself, repressing a soft tendril of anger in his stomach. "Affirmative." Spock said. And then added, "The 'was' being the pivotal word."

Jim almost smirked. Almost. There was something heavy in his eyes, though. Something serious. As if Spock had said something more then "I was betrothed to T'Pring. At a young age, I was unable to suppress the emotional link that accompanies a fresh bond. She was similarly unable to, or, perhaps, did not wish to. She attempted to, as she put it, 'be in love.' I believe the behavior of her nuclear family was less than ideal. The emotions I interpreted through the bond could be considered 'exhausting.'"

Something more than that. But he hadn't said something more than that. Jim looked at Spock as if he'd stripped himself down like T'Pring had, with her words, though. And he asked "What happened?"

* * *

The bond was a tether.

It was a reel, and he couldn't disobey it. Spock noticed, of course, that other bonded children did not behave this way. At first, yes, but then as one and two and three and even more years went by from the age of seven, the first betrothal, the young bondmates distanced themselves. They didn't even really stand next to each other at all.

In fact, they seemed more often to avoid one another. Gazes slid over their partners like oil on water, unable to find purchase on the other. While his eyes snapped into place on T'Pring, while he found himself by her side without wanting to be, and she, he could tell by the echo in his mind, found the same thing. They fell into step and place with one another. At one point he found her in his pod at school, and she turned to him, surprised, not expecting it wasn't hers.

He knew it wasn't her doing this. He knew from the lethal acidic taste in the back of his own mind that she hated him, or wanted to, anyway. She was angry. She held the word 'love' in perfect bold, and wanted him to make it real.

Their mind was a separate world he found himself sinking into. And she, similarly. He went home and felt a spinning, empty anger. At times, he would awake, wet with sweat, touching his head and expecting a tangle of hair, feeling a body that wasn't his own, feeling a presence that wasn't anything, was only a cold sharp chill of _something._

T'Pring didn't feel love. Not that Spock did, but he could tell she didn't because he knew love, remembered it, of course, didn't feel it because he was a Vulcan, but remembered mother's hands on face and heart beating slow and arms around him and small indescribable faith and –

The point was.

The point was she didn't know what love was. But emotions had already elapsed onto her, because this was fear, and he didn't know how to stop it.

Spock stopped avoiding T'Pring after one night, after he felt that fear well up like cold blood, filling him and threatening to spill over. He acted differently in these times. It was, he could tell, worrying his mother. Forcing his father to show some empty, heartless form of concern.

So he'd taken to running in the desert. Claiming it was exercise, but really, really, it was nothing more than stretching that bond thin, stretching it in some desperate, broken, selfish hope that perhaps it would break. It didn't. Of course it didn't.

In fact, tonight it curled up inside him. Wove tight and held him.

He was not surprised to find her there, in the end.

She lay under the dust of other worlds shining down, stared up at it with a sick longing for the heavens that he recognized as his own. Her hair was down, was black oil slick against her back, just brushed. Skin was pale, boney limbs and face sharp and eyes great, large full things capturing the sky and shooting it back, as if each pupil and iris contained the reflective power of an ocean compressed.

She was still.

And it wasn't that he knew anything about what happened to her behind the walls of her home, but he had memories, feelings, feelings feelings feeling she couldn't push away so he couldn't either. So he knew, almost. So he knew, enough.

"I do not believe you resemble your mother in any fashion." He said. He could remember in perfect detail the woman sitting there at their betrothal, back when they were both seven and had separate minds.

"Quite an insult, quite an insult." T'Pring rambled, her voice sharp, broken, angry, scared. "My mother is emotion. She's everything Vulcans abandoned. It is my father who is the failure. The stoic, uncaring beast. My mother feels, feels and enjoys it._ We_could enjoy it, too."

A long silence. When T'Pring spoke again, her voice was horribly quiet, as if she feared being overheard.

"She's not mine." T'Pring said. Her legs curled together like other beings. She was only wearing warm-season sleep-wear, and those legs, light-green bruised, looked horribly naked curled together like that. "My biological mother died on the USS Kelvin. She was conducting a study through the Vulcan Science Academy."

Spock could see Andromeda in her eyes. Tania Borialis. Sol.

"She is the mate of my father, so she is to be called my mother. She had a child before with a Vulcan named Sevik. A daughter. Sevik illegally left Vulcan with the daughter a year before she wed my father, just when the daughter turned nine. There was an unresolved investigation as to why."

Tears piled up beneath the stars and finally overflowed. Spock looked down. Away. He didn't want to see her unveiled anymore. He wanted her to put on the same mask everyone else did and shut up, shut up and _stop_. He could not bring himself to leave, however. So he lowered himself down beside her, and did not protest as she turned and pressed her face into his neck, despite the heavy thud of her emotions suddenly strengtheninged tenfold, the voice of her mind less like language and more like the growing cacophony of a storm.

He only protested when her hand trailed down, tried to touch him below the stomach. Then he gripped her wrist and pushed back, touching her fingers briefly to his in soft comfort. Her emotions were like fire. They burned him up and made him blank, and let him be blank for her. Calm for her. A circle of something that might burn away or go out, he didn't know, but he couldn't leave.

T'Pring lifted her face, tears leaving trails, making mud of the sand that had blown over her pores. "I want to _feel._" She said, voice hard, brittle, choked with crying.

"You are feeling." Spock responded, blankly. She gripped his face, pulled him towards her, trying to crush his lips against her mouth, but he tilted his head away so their foreheads merely pressed against one another. She kept them there, as if wishing to fully entwine their minds, make their brains meld together as well.

As they were headed back, she became nervous, distanced herself. She would go back and forth between gripping his hand in a way that was truly sinful and confusing and stepping back, going away from him, tripping over her own gangly, almost-woman legs, sick eyes staring at him suspiciously. He felt the untrained fingers of her mind picking his over.

"Do not attempt it." T'Pring finally said, threateningly, as they at last approached his family's home.

He didn't respond, and certainly didn't pretend to not know what she meant. He went inside with her still standing out there, eyes cold with disease and hatred and desperation.

Spock told his mother what he knew of T'Pring's family, and she cried. He didn't know what to do, but strangely, he didn't feel much. Didn't feel anything. While he knew it wouldn't last, it seemed at this moment as if she had fully burned all potential of petty sorrow or guilt or love away. Nothing more to be suppressed.

At her bidding, he told his father, and his father nodded unfeelingly, rose, and very business-like went off to report the abuse to the proper authorities.

Spock felt when T'Pring realized what he'd done. Felt her suddenly clawing at him, at the bond, trying to strike the bond but only tearing at his and her mind. He screamed one broken yell once without meaning to, and then went silent, down on all fours, breathing heavily at the feeling of her tearing at him. They'd expected this, of course. Expected anything from a child with a broken katra. It was torture for exactly seven seconds, one for each year of his life he'd spent without her, he thought, and then the clean empty slice of a healer, and then she was gone.

Gone.

Gone.

Empty.

Echo.

_Silence._

She took everything with her.

Spock hadn't realized how much of himself had only been T'Pring. How her in his arms, tearful face in his neck, had actually been a part of his body, and he was missing it now. She was the point of the function in his limbs, a vital organ in the middle that made the blood in his veins worth something. It was stupid, ridiculous, silly, to be different from not having her, as his father most logically implied. His mother held him, though, when he didn't ask to be held. For the first time in years he allowed it without protest, empty and echoing with her loss.

"This is grief." His mother said gently. She pushed back his hair, and he relished the small strike of 'I am too old for that,' the slight, guilty feel of conviction in his bones for the first time in a while. "You'll figure out how you were alone before eventually, I promise. I'm so _sorry_, Spock. So sorry."

"There is no need." He said. "It is not of import."

Regardless, he was allowed a visit.

She was being held in an 'Enclosed Healing Facility' until she was able to regain the control that had been stripped from her by the abuse. It was bizarre to see her without feeling her, as if this T'Pring must be a fake. She looked at him in much the same kind of way, and he marveled at the fact that he did not know what she was thinking.

"Thank-you." She said. She refused to look him in the eye. She looked strange and tiny inside the baggy black uniform they had her wearing, and her hair had been cut short, like his. "This was the logical thing to do."

"Affirmative." He responded.

"You must never worry if you're a real Vulcan." She said suddenly, in English. He blinked. "I'm more human than you ever will be."

"Affirmative." He said, staring at this creature with his hair and wild eyes and a face that seemed like something that belonged to him. He didn't know what else to say. But he knew this is what she wanted him to say, so he said it.

For the first time, she smiled a real smile, unlike any he'd ever seen on her face. It reached her eyes effortlessly, was only very small, and seemed to tear her face apart as if it had been cut open.

The healer in the room with them stepped forwards, pulling her back as T'Pring seemed to suddenly fall towards Spock. Not violently, not quickly. More like attempting to crumple into his bones. Through the cold metal table between them. As if she thought they'd fit together and that mere fact would catch her and keep her from hitting the ground.

Spock was alone. Seven more seconds. And then he left, to meet his mother in the lobby outside.

* * *

Jim was silent after Spock finished, the padds of his fingers rolling over the berry in his hand, his eyebrows together.

"Is that the end?" he asked after a long stretch of time where Spock could practically feel his words between them, a cause he didn't see the effect of, yet.

"No." Spock responded shortly. "I could continue up until the present day if you wish. Considering I am still alive, the completion of one event does not mark 'the end.'"

"I meant of the story."

"That was not a story."

"Well… it kind of was."

"No. I was informing you of events you appeared to take interest in. I apologize if you viewed it as a folk tale, intended to amuse, but I can assure you it was merely information that-"

"Ok! Ok, you know what,_ fine_, I'm sorry, it was not a story. It was… whatever you were saying it was." Jim pressed his thumbs to his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, and Spock stared down at the table between them.

"Do you feel 'anger' towards me, at this moment?" Spock asked, curious.

"No." Jim said.

"You are lying." Spock informed him conversationally. It was then that he began to gather his things. He wrapped the trash leftover from the meal into a neat, compact ball of brown paper around the soggy remains of food. He twisted the plastics together from wrappers, separated metals and papers and glass from the bottle into three distinct categories. He tried to ignore Jim's eyes on his hands.

"I'm not 'angry.' It's not the right word, ok? Admittedly you frustrate the hell out of me. But I'm… confused. Overwhelmed, I suppose. I don't know."

"I apologize for 'overwhelming' you." Spock said stiffly.

"Don't. I wanted to hear that."

"So you said before. This is why I told you it."

Jim sighed loudly, and before Spock could reach them, he grabbed all his own trash and swept it onto his lap, wheeling the chair around to the trash bin behind them and shoving it all inside. There wasn't even a crumb clinging to the wrappers. "Yeah, that's certainly true." He said in a sing-song voice. Spock approached the bins, plastics and glass in hand, when Jim suddenly reached up and caught his arm at the elbow. "Listen," he said, "I'm glad you told me. I just… people don't usually spill their guts like that. People usually spit out small details about feelings and try to wave them in front of people's faces until the other person has no choice but to shove em all together. It's just… _strange_. You say things like there's never a reason not to say them. You don't fuck around with things. You always end up doing the opposite of the norm. The norm of, like, everything. Ever."

Spock stared at the hand on his arm, and Jim let go. "So now I am 'strange?'" Spock said.

"Don't pretend to be offended. You know you've just been complimented. And you liked it." Jim said bluntly, and smirked at him.

Spock made no comment.

"I suppose we should clean up and get back, though." Jim said, directly before the automated voice came over the loudspeaker, saying that the library would be closing in approximately fifteen minutes.

Spock selected the four most useful volumes to continue his studies. Jim selected one with large, detailed pictures and videos, the fingers loud and bright and clean, fluttering like butterflies on the cover. Spock didn't look for longer than a moment.

The sun had sunk low in the time they'd spent in the library cafe, and it had now reached that perfect point of shimmering gold splayed across all green things, the sky in the east only beginning to accept night while the west was lit on fire with a bleeding, melting sun. Jim let out a noise as they exited, something less like the oohs and ahhs Spock had heard others exclaim at beauty, and more as if this sky was something complex and miraculous that had only just been invented, and the world was made better for it. They began their walk back to the dorm, and Spock ignored for as long as he could to increasingly slower pace Jim was setting.

Jim had refused an electric wheelchair, saying "I can move my own arms perfectly well, thanks."

His breath was coming in short bursts by the time they were two thirds back to the dorm, though. And when Spock thought back to the way he had verbally exploded because of a few unintending words and how his face contorted with a kind of bare, shameful pain whenever McCoy had to help him to the shower or bathroom and whenever Spock had to get him his meals, Spock hesitated for a moment.

Only a moment.

Then Spock put his hands down to the chair, gripping the upward curve of metal shaped to a human hand and pushing them onwards. Jim, thankfully, did nothing besides glance grudgingly and gratefully up at him.

Spock watched the road, and he watched Jim's breathing even out. If he concentrated, he could feel the thump thump thump of Jim's heart, reverberating against bones and muscle and the plastic-metal solidity of the chair connecting Jim's to Spock's.

* * *

AN: I swear this has a purpose. You'll just have to keep reading to find out. -D

Anyway. I tried to make a super-long and hopefully good and stuff to make up for the long pause between the last two chapters. Love you guys! And remember, hitting that review button saves... um... sehlats. Yes. Little baby Sehlats get homes every time you hit that review button. Mwahahaha!


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